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Interiority is a babble, a continuous inkstain on the pages of thought. For lovers, these words are burnt through; they resonate; they form tangential links to the volcanic core of existence. The solitary one hears only chatter on a one-way radio. In love, the babble turns into dreaming, moans, the sky becomes green when it is spoken. In love, words repeat endlessly. Their banality is no matter: each one operates in a spectral double world running alongside our own. The words multiply and become a new city, a shared imaginary. The babble drowns those who speak it. Overpowered by their imaginings, the alterities contained in their words shake the lightning-struck earth.