The men in Dungen build us a castle with their music. They construct something so majestic and surreal that you're not really sure what to make of it. They make these structures that are just inspiring and jaw-dropping - sitting out there in the middle of some kind of a countryside, lush and abandoned (or fortified?) on all sides by clouds and blue skies.
They present to us a feeling of cold that's as warm as cold could ever be - a shiver that could feel like a hot tongue. There's a sense that, this castle that they've made, might be threatened by intruders or a rebellion, but it's so massive that one could still find places inside it where he or she could feel safe. Within the words and the swelling piano notes are nests where comfortable feelings and embraces reside. Even with that general feeling, there's still something of a pining that is there, lurking nervously, pacing a hole. It's a breezy feeling that there's something missing in a life, and it's just a matter of time before a finger is placed on just what it is.
Dungen provides this manse to dwell in, to spend all of one's waking hours either gardening or wiling away the hours in the study with books, a dim light, pipe and some urge to check to see if your resting heart rate is really an acceptable resting heart rate more times than any man should feel the need. These songs feel like smoking jackets and mufflers. They can't help but make you think about love that's slipping out of your fingers, or less subtly falling out of your hand like a teacup and shattering into a thousand little, not so sharp pieces. The stately, floor-to-ceiling curtains are drawn, but no one gets to ogle those broken pieces. They're just yours to clean up or ignore, whichever is less painful.