It’s so late. The streetlights should have come on by now, but the block is dark. Marie Davidson stands out in the street, still, facing your front door. You peek through the blinds every six minutes. She has made it her personal mission to prevent you from sleeping. She has tactics:
1. The spectral monologue.
2. The inducing of nightmares.
3. The intimate knowledge of your intimate knowledge.
4. The beats.
5. The cyborg synths.
6. The church organs.
7. The hypnosis.
Work up a quick life-flash-before-your-eyes montage before you queue up “Perte D’identite,” and watch, helpless, as Davidson peels away your memories as the rind of a fruit. Her matrix of intertwined synth hardware pulses and breathes, modulating your heartbeat into step. Your eyelids sag. If you don’t understand her whispers, you glean their intention. If you don’t follow her train of thought, you aren’t focusing hard enough. Davidson’s elegant amalgam of dark ambient textures, clattering technoid rhythms, and vocal incantations soundtracks your night sweats, your persisting illusions, your clawing for the doorknob. Her synth arrangements seethe and evolve as the clock ticks. Her voice beckons you outside. You look down to see your body moving on its own. Let her win.