Straight in, no intro — a clean, easy vocal over a light pulse, warm harmony underneath. And the words are all daylight: the clothes she wears, the sunlight in her hair.

Four lines in and it hasn't broken a sweat — the beat ticks along, the vocal floats, the harmony hums underneath. Even the words are air: a gentle word, her perfume on the wind.

The bottom is clipped and exact; the top just slides around above it, free and a little uncanny. That's the sound of this hook — precision below, glide on top.

The hook turns into a chant — 'good, good, good, good vibrations' — with that low judder still carrying it along.

Now it pulls inward — the track thins out, the singing goes soft and close, eyes closed, and somehow she's nearer.

She takes him to a blossom world — the one real destination the song ever names — and the light pulse keeps rolling underneath, unhurried.

Back comes the hook, rebuilt — more voices this time, calls and answers, the air busier without ever getting crowded.

The chant comes around again — 'good, good, good' — and the answering voices pile 'excitations' on top of each other, layer after layer.

A whole different room — clipped, tacky keyboard hits make the section bounce, while the harmony still drifts upward and the voices hold those long 'ah's in the air.

He doesn't know where, but she 'sends me there' — and 'there' never gets defined. The voices just build the place while they're holding it.

Other voices are answering now, sighing those 'my, my's — a sensation, an elation — naming the feeling over and over, like naming it keeps it in reach.

It softens here — the whole track pulls back — and the wish turns into work: keep the 'good vibrations' happening, with her, over and over. Even bliss takes a little maintenance.

Again — a-happenin' with her — a little more strain showing through the sweetness this time.

Light comes back into the top of it — the whole record starts to gleam again.

The hook is back — an 'ah' thrown on top, brighter and thicker with voices than when it left. After every strange detour, the chorus still comes home.

Voices as percussion now — 'oom-bop-bop' down in the texture while the chant keeps circling.

And the words give up on words — na-na-na, na-na-na — voices as pure rhythm, that low figure still walking underneath so nothing floats away.

Doo-doos answering doo-doos — the whole record humming to itself on the way out.

It ends the way it ran — the low pulse still turning over, that high glide still floating somewhere above it — thinning and receding toward the final cutoff. For all its turns, it never once sounds like pieces.