Time is a tricky thing. It spins effortless wonders to convince us that things only flow in one direction — that our formative experiences lie sleeping in youthful days, branded upon our beating hearts like the aging wrinkles of our skin. And sure, there’s a strong case for it when you consider that most things along the way can’t be undone, because time knows better than that. But for every irreversible consequence, at some point we’re sure to round the bend and revisit the old feelings that once felt, for better or worse, completely inescapable. By will or by weakness, by physics or by fate. Because when it comes down to it, time is really just a big, flat fucking circle. When we long to be seen, we’re often faced with our own reflections. When we crave growth, we’re reminded of where we’ve come from. On Maybe I Will See You at the End of the World, Sydney Sprague finds herself caught amidst this phenomenon, crafting a series of introspective pop rock singalongs to make new waves in the struggle to navigate the ones she’s spent her life stirring up.