Take a look at your bookshelves, or in your attics. How long has it been since you read/listened to something that stirred your imagination. That increased the fertility of your brain cells. Memories from your childhood. A flash of colors. A fragrance from yesterday. Unbroken happiness or maybe boundless unpleasantness. Limitless vexation, best left buried under layers of untruths, too perilous to disturb. To untangle the trudges of disillusionment. Brush off the dust, the copious layers of dirt. Listen to the echoes that are left hanging by one tired, worn-out capillary, about to expire.
That which seems to be thrones of triviality in our early life, decades later flow up as scalding lava. The ghosts of our early life continue to haunt us. Such is the story of Ethereal, when the nameless main character in the book battles against the nefarious and sinister. His unworldliness, open heartedness, and naivety seems no match against the hollow and profane. He is clothed only in his innocence and armor less exterior. It is the story of selfishness and ego versus intimacy and love. Maybe it will take the listener back to their own past when they were vulnerable and frail, struggling to survive.