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.
