Acedia dives into the depths of Ken Reaume’s psyche, and it’s a sprawlingly gorgeous — if occasionally unsettling — place. Teenage skate-vid ephemera (see “Brian Lotti,” narrated by the legend himself) intersects with finger-picked guitar cascades; sparse drum robotics, as on “Hiatus” or “Sun to Rise,” underscore crushingly placid vocals, recalling Red House Painters after a three-day chemical bender; “Pines” is a blackened vocal choir for the Godless, before being washed away in whitecaps of white noise. Acedia’s final chapter, “Mark’s Song,” is a full-blown Sunday morning existential crisis: It cracks the blinds to Reaume’s sunny finger-picking, before the previous night’s minor-key regrets slowly seep in. Beautiful, blackened psych-folk for the self-loathing.