Litterae: III

And on the seventh day, we rested.

And on the seventh day, we cried for our son.

And on the seventh day, our sun beat his chest.

And on the seventh day--out--stripes through song; bleed on.

Tell me what those four lines mean and I will work for you as a slave for the rest of my life.

That's one thing that's beautiful about the written word--you can pack so much meaning into four lines that no one but you could ever decode. Then, you could put those words to a soft, warm tune.

Now you know what I do each night before i sleep. I break and re-break meaning into lyric then mold it into song.

And then I close my eyes. I sing and listen. As I listen a picture is painted across my mind, filling every expanse of thought-space, reaching out past every corner of my mind's all seeing eye. Isn't it beautiful? A picture so full and rich that you can't even see the entire picture inside your own head? It's so encompassing that no matter which way you turn inside your mind you'll never explore the entire picture.

That's what i see. I wish i could make you understand how beautiful it is. I cry, thinking i can't take you there with me-but I've found it's my place to go. It's my job to tend the gardens there...my job to look after the racing brook....my job to sing the world to sleep.

And still you don't know what I'm seeing. You can't quite see my picture.

But i can do something for you-

I can sing you straight to yours.

I can make your mind blank space.

Then I can fill it full of warm--if you let me.

I'll play softly. I'll sing in whisper. We'll go there.

Separate worlds. But one song--

And the pictures will fill our minds, full past all horizons of reason.

And almost nothing would stop you from crying, because it's that beautiful.

And almost nothing would make me happier than helping you get there.