It’s listening through the first half of the album, until the Gothic mock-Western solo of ‘A Forest’ meanders to a halt. It’s a lack of oxygen in Rachel Trickett, room dark and two people chair-to-chair. Sunlight under the door a taunt. It’s the song that played in a white people carrier, around the wide, straight streets of Vancouver B. C. A lyric I couldn’t make out. It’s all of these things. It’s faltering and having to fight; nothing but Narcissus fighting a reflection. Tinnitus rings out my right ear. It rang out then. Pubs coalesce to muddy background hiss. Prentiousness denied its air in the wider world.

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