There are times in a day when the voice wants to change: explore all the possibilities involved with sound, break itself into soreness, roughen up the beautiful strings just to hear difference, green as a pearl in the seaweed, that same wave as light brings when obscured. Or the voice wants to wander away, take a trip into the deeper place of the loud, raucous, dangerous- ly excessive and unfeeling self - a distorted trumpet blat on the walls of the cave. This is when insanity beckons, not from loss but an abundance of faith, the greed of the moment, fruit, cheese, bread in one's teeth, wine lapped up on the tongue - the amazed effect it creates all important, the new stone to worship when taste, scent, touch, the running juice on the lips are all one. These are the times it must be appeased with less, and that is the trick, isn't it? Parceling out the tenderest pleasures without speech, without throwing them off to the wind where they might sail into harm. They must be kept, a woman in bed, pregnant with child.