In the noise that elides the space between sound, there we might touch. All butterflykisses our gazes might meet, and anyway, to which surface of the eye do lips compare? Our gazes meet: a way of expressing a distance that brings together: our gazesmeet. But precisely, that through the visibleseeing distance I see both your gaze and your eyes, your visibleyes that are in the world and your seeingaze that is the very origin of the world, so touch must be amended with an if — if we could touch, we could touch if there were suchathingastouch since in the suspension of the inbetween alltheworld is touch if we could touch I would shatter.

Allimean is that here her gaze has lifted from her shoes. Now she looksatyou or looksthroughyou, but yousee her gaze seeingyou, and whoever has the strength to sustain a gaze? So you swoonshatter in the pinkshiny milkyhaze, and all resplendent parts of you just swirl there in momentous suspension. And what else is popmusic if not that hailingaze of the Heyouthere! that fashions subjects according to the cemented fashion dejour? But somespeciatimes the gaze is really a gaze, and instead of beingatheredup into the prefab worldself of the popradio Heyitsmetheintendedaudience!, you know, it reallyhurts to be looked at in a realway, and in the aporetic dissolution of meaning, meaning is still there all swooncrash and entangled in the surge of feasible forms.

And maybe much will be made of their newplayful trifling with those muchmaligned indiedancetronica influences, but I don’think this is the mereaesthetic synthwave chill,man plasticity of the endlessly reproducible shoppingmall sunset; you know, it’s, like, looming, there, the world. And of course mybloodyvalentine had glimpsed the pop eclipse of their noise in the present notyet present nolonger a future classic “Soon.” Andofcourse the trajectory of shoegaze is all loveless but not lackinglove; it’s only that loveless is a less a love than a way of loving, a loving by boundaryblurring, a way of gazing, and through the haze a way to touch. A gaze is the one visiblelyinvisible thinglessthing, and sometimes to see another’s sight, allelse must disappear, to love love must be loveless, and I justfeel that in addition to the desire for the lazycalm vague and haze, there’s also this happysad hope to look through the mist and see clear borders for lidslashes maybe to brush up against in gleeseeing — you know, realseeing. And this miracle of touch? Only remember that it’s hardly miserable, that the saintlysorrowfulheart, the misericors, is compassion is togethertouch.

In the noise that elides the space between sound, there we might touch. All butterflykisses our gazes might meet, and anyway, to which surface of the eye do lips compare? Our gazes meet: a way of expressing a distance that brings together: our gazesmeet. But precisely, that through the visibleseeing distance I see both your gaze and your eyes, your visibleyes that are in the world and your seeingaze that is the very origin of the world, so touch must be amended with an if — if we could touch, we could touch if there were suchathingastouch since in the suspension of the inbetween alltheworld is touch if we could touch I would shatter.

Allimean is that here her gaze has lifted from her shoes. Now she looksatyou or looksthroughyou, but yousee her gaze seeingyou, and whoever has the strength to sustain a gaze? So you swoonshatter in the pinkshiny milkyhaze, and all resplendent parts of you just swirl there in momentous suspension. And what else is popmusic if not that hailingaze of the Heyouthere! that fashions subjects according to the cemented fashion dejour? But somespeciatimes the gaze is really a gaze, and instead of beingatheredup into the prefab worldself of the popradio Heyitsmetheintendedaudience!, you know, it reallyhurts to be looked at in a realway, and in the aporetic dissolution of meaning, meaning is still there all swooncrash and entangled in the surge of feasible forms.

And maybe much will be made of their newplayful trifling with those muchmaligned indiedancetronica influences, but I don’think this is the mereaesthetic synthwave chill,man plasticity of the endlessly reproducible shoppingmall sunset; you know, it’s, like, looming, there, the world. And of course mybloodyvalentine had glimpsed the pop eclipse of their noise in the present notyet present nolonger a future classic “Soon.” Andofcourse the trajectory of shoegaze is all loveless but not lackinglove; it’s only that loveless is a less a love than a way of loving, a loving by boundaryblurring, a way of gazing, and through the haze a way to touch. A gaze is the one visiblelyinvisible thinglessthing, and sometimes to see another’s sight, allelse must disappear, to love love must be loveless, and I justfeel that in addition to the desire for the lazycalm vague and haze, there’s also this happysad hope to look through the mist and see clear borders for lidslashes maybe to brush up against in gleeseeing — you know, realseeing. And this miracle of touch? Only remember that it’s hardly miserable, that the saintlysorrowfulheart, the misericors, is compassion is togethertouch.