As much as Francis Harris' new work, Minutes of Sleep, is a record of mourning, it is also a record of motion, which seems to materialize out of the vapor, its form gradually coalescing as it progresses. Storm clouds gather with the opening meditation, "Hems", and then break with "Dangerdream". The energy is one of patient inertia; a steady beat finally materializes three songs in with the haunting "Radiofreeze", dials up to muted minimal techno on "Lean Back", then glides to the fore in "You Can Always Leave", the first of a pair of nine-minute centerpieces that the album pivots on. All the while, the momentum has built up so gradually that the distance from Point A to Point B feels closer than it is. Perhaps more circular than linear, the path that Minutes of Sleep takes from one song to the next still feels like an entirely natural progression. Yet when it comes to the album's place within his body of work, Francis Harris doesn't really see any through-lines. "I think it's important to not trace a line or talk about the idea of progression," Harris says, revealing that he sees very little connection between this record and any of his previous work. "I find the idea of focusing on one concept at a time to be rewarding, as it keeps you in the present, at least conceptually."