The night runs amok in the songs of The White Buffalo. The spirit is out prowling, snapping twigs, making them sound like bogeymen. It's out there sniffing around for weakness, for fellow blood-thirsty insomniacs -- any other spirits that might like to open up the engines a little bit and see how they hang together. There's a desire to find the beauty within these other animals, but there's that thrilling part of the hunt where one might be praying to pry back the hide, or peer in behind the lights of the eyes and have nothing but rotten pulp fall out, like spoiled caviar. It would make for one of those lonesome and sullied stories to tell later, with the other outlaws or outsiders. These songs are smashed up fingers and broken ribs. They're meat-fed and tired eyed. They are disasters and unpaid debts reframed to feel like the mosaic masterpieces of shredded dreams.