Over and Over

A haze of organ tones and gently cycling percussion opens this track, establishing a mood that feels less like a song beginning and more like surfacing from a half-remembered dream. The production is warm and gauzy — layered keyboards blur at the edges, and the drums fall with a kind of deliberate lassitude, as if time itself is slightly thicker here. Victoria Legrand's voice arrives low and unhurried, a deep contralto that doesn't so much sing as inhabit the space around the melody, letting resonance do the emotional lifting. The song circles its central feeling the way the title promises — returning, returning, never quite resolving — and in that repetition builds something cumulative and quietly overwhelming. It speaks to the way certain emotional states loop without permission, how longing can become almost architectural, a structure you live inside without choosing to. There's a devotional quality to the repetition, ritualistic even, like a mantra said so many times it loses and then regains meaning. This is music for late nights when the mind won't quiet, for drives through amber-lit streets when nostalgia arrives uninvited. It belongs to the lineage of dream pop's most hypnotic practitioners — My Bloody Valentine's gauze, the slow-motion ache of Cocteau Twins — but filtered through something more emotionally direct, more intimate. You feel it in the chest rather than the ears.