Speak to me.
Your light shines and I see
and I seek, but, please,
speak to me, baby, louder, I can’t hear
Your light, only yours, speaks to me and I don’t know the words I hear or
I want to say the blood rush, it’s so
Quick, speak to me but... hear the light
Speak to me, baby.
I hear it lighting up my dark emptiness.
Oh… oh, speak to me, baby
I see you rising, falling, pushing your calling into my heart, oh,
speak to me, softly, now, softly, I’m, I’m, I am,
Softly, stop, speak to me.
I feel glowing in my, my… soul…?
Speak to me, baby, your ligh… ah, ahh, uuuuh, onto me… baby… ohh, speak to me.
Speak your words and I’ll feel
but can to touch to say
Speak to me, baby,
I will wrap you around inside my, they will be my soul
and around my have and to hold you,
your sound, your voice in me.
Oh…speak to me baby, please
speak to me.
The bedrock truth of romanticism, resistant to even the most corrosive modernism, is that consciousness is our participation in the infinite. But consciousness needs found objects---.