Gravenhurst's Nick Talbot is a romantic. Problem with romance, however, is outside of that first kiss it is often 10 percent perspiration, 90 percent resignation. The only place the dopamine receptors don't eventually grow dull is on Robert Doisneau posters in art-school dorm rooms. So Talbot uses a diffused jangle to embody that bittersweet purgatory, the pining to recast spontaneity and rewind the first time you say it will be the last time. Recalling faint echoes of Flying Saucer Attack, Slowdive, and Fairport Convention, Talbot casts lilting corkscrews of affected guitar like a scrim onto which fond memories are projected then refracted. Within 10 tracks of crepuscular coils and trim percussion Talbot dreamily celebrates the absorbing fatigue of nostalgia.