I can’t read these words. The black mascara is too thick. The clothing is too dark to see through, my turtleneck turned into a mask to hide from Sean Bailey — even as I transform into him in a strange Kafka nightmare. Crossed with Leaves is a car crash of Goth influence. It vibrates with the sexual energy of Depeche Mode, it barks with the precession of Bauhaus, and breakfasts with the ghost of Ian Curtis. Despite its morose Goth-folk, “Crossed with Leaves” and its B-side “Night Lark” are compelling. It’s the old moth-to-flame attraction that ruins us all. We become Bailey’s willing souls for the moments he unleashes Lakes upon us, only shaking ourselves free after the last bitter notes melt into the abyss; we here the abyss calling to us, even in silence.
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