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tricot's "POOL" moves the way water does when disturbed — ripples spreading outward from a central impact, creating interference patterns where expected symmetries collapse. Ikumi Nakajima's voice is the instrument that separates tricot from their purely instrumental math rock peers: it floats above the angular guitar structures with a conversational lightness that belies the rhythmic complexity beneath it, phrasing across barlines as if the time signatures were suggestions rather than rules. The guitars here carry a slightly abrasive jangle, the chord voicings reaching for extensions that feel unstable until the next chord reveals the logic. There's a restless, water-under-pressure quality to the arrangement — the band never settles into a groove long enough for comfort, always redirecting, always finding a new angle of approach to the same central emotional territory. Lyrically the song lives in the space of emotional ambivalence, the kind of feeling that can't be named clearly because it contains contradictory things simultaneously: longing and relief, closeness and distance. This is music for the texture of relationships rather than their narrative arc — the specific quality of a silence between two people who understand each other completely. Best encountered in the kind of solitude that feels chosen rather than imposed.