Moby's lengthy, vibrant career has of course required a lot of travel and, like most artists, he has a way to describe the feelings—emotional and physical—that all that movement invokes: "Everything around you is vaguely familiar but disconcerting in its familiarity...all looks normal except your circadian rhythms are all screwed up. You haven't eaten well, you have slept well, it's unnecessarily bright [and] you're covered in that weird, synthetic travel grime." "Sevastopol" almost seems to take on those qualities—a stream of languid electronics with an even prettier rattling atop, as if your body was battling to keep up with the excitement of experience while but your master clock was still ticking out of control, humming to keep yourself sane.
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