One year ago, Burial released his sixth EP, Truant/Rough Sleeper. The two tracks on this work were long ("Truant" running almost 12 minutes, and "Rough Sleeper" running almost 14 minutes) and altogether sounded like the fragments of musical ideas for an epic album that existed only in its maker's mind. But despite the EP's messiness, it felt strangely organic, like some urban animal that comes out only at night and whose habitat features the moon-glistening tracks of subways, the iridescent pools of leaked and soil-thickened oil, and the sparks of electric cables that link the dead underground city with the living surficial one. The beats on Truant/Rough Sleeper come alive, hobble for a bit, and then collapse into hisses and crackles. Ghosts enter and exit the tracks. Angels appear and glow in the ambient fog before being extinguished like the lamp on a faulty streetlight. The record has no narrative or theme, no beginning or end. And certain parts—the roughest, rawest parts—seem to have no designer. The sounds are as blind and godless as evolution itself.