Vessitt doesn’t make ambient music for yoga studios. His compositions belong to the hour after the lights go out, when the body hums with insomnia and the window glass quietly pretends to be water. "Chapter Two: Reflections" is not a sequel in the narrative sense, but a continuation of method - a further bending of tone and perception, a mirror that doesn’t flatter but refracts.

From the first moments of "Prologue to the Beginning and End", one senses that Vessitt, this Los Angeles-based sculptor of frequencies, has learned to let silence breathe between the pulses. His guitar - processed beyond recognition - becomes vapor, memory, occasionally blade. Synth textures enter like latecomers to a dream, not quite invited but perfectly timed. The pieces seem less composed than condensed, the way dew collects meaning overnight.

He speaks of reflections and perception, and indeed, every sound here feels doubled - part physical, part phantom. On "Peaking", for instance, the tones wobble as if observed through heat. "Dogma in Ergosphere" trades strings for pure synthesis, its triangle waves tracing the outline of a cybernetic prayer. There’s humour in the title, but the music remains stern, elegant, and faintly radioactive - the kind of sound that seems to illuminate the listener rather than the other way around.

By the time "Gyokuro" arrives - a long-time live piece finally crystallized - Vessitt opens his palette toward the melodic, or at least the suggestion of melody. It’s the record’s breathing space, where harmonic shimmer briefly pretends to be hope before collapsing into slow-motion static. The album’s architecture mirrors a thought experiment: what if reflections could feel pain, or nostalgia?

Dragon’s Eye Recordings, with its long history of championing the spectral and the precise, is a fitting home. Vessitt’s work aligns with a particular strain of West Coast minimalism - lucid, disciplined, but emotionally unruly. His sounds are never ornamental; they behave like questions with no interest in answers.

There’s a sly tension running through "Chapter Two: Reflections": it’s meditative, yes, but also slightly paranoid, as though every sustained note was being observed from behind the mirror. The closing "Epilogue for Everything" completes the loop - not a resolution, but a graceful recursion. The sound doesn’t end; it simply turns its head and looks back at you.

Listening to this album is like staring into dark glass: the longer you gaze, the more you suspect the reflection might blink first.