It Is No Madness To Say You

I Had Drawn Away Into The Salt, Myself, A Shell Emptied Of Life.

Music Sets Up Ladders, It Makes Us Invisible, It Sets Us Apart, It Lets Us Escape; But From The Visible There Is No Escape.

(those Women Whom The Distaff No Longer Claims Nor Spun Cloth) Driven Made, Mad, Mad By Bacchus.

Sing And Your Hell Is Heaven, Your Heaven Less Hell.

The Heart The Heart The Heart How It Thrives On Hate.