I do not wish to undermine the gifts of the worlds most operatic songstresses, but at the moment I find even the most beckoning siren a bit lackluster. Since, in history, there was hardly ever a chord struck more pleasantly to me than these – which are delivered with unfathomable elligance from from her – whos head now lays softly on my chest. And from her lips flow wonderful, dancing syllables that float out like great flocks of doves. I close my eyes and watch them all, in my mind, manipulate the atmosphere above our heads. Each letter of her alphabet flaps its white wings and mocks gravity. Twisting and diving and then floating back towards the moonlight.

Maybe its due to her current proximity to such a vital and nonsensical organ as my heart that makes me mutter these things. Or perhaps due to her voice – which always covers me in such a strange nostalgia. Her voice being the most endearing accelerant to the inferno that is my imagination. If she could only see all the lives I’ve lead in my mind through her words. All the foreign lands I’ve conquered. All the kings I’ve slain….

I lay back and focus on her fingers which tap my ribs to an off-beat. Vibrating my veins like a string instrument. My very being now a grand piano at the fingers of the most astonishing protégé.

What a magnificent symphony has she made of me! I doubt cherubs could pluck away at their harps with such grace! Ha! She has made them all a fool! And look how Ive become the most blubbering concerto!