I wrap myself in a blanket, warmth and comfort. There is no exchange of conversation. The unspoken void is not written until we touch. Simple music plays and all life’s experiences serve my senses with a sentient knowledge of your presence. An empty record of what I have read in your direct gaze is worth more than the purpose I was seeking in myself. If I can function long enough, I will understand what is inside the words. We have dealt with the language of the sounds. Now I need to think of greater origins and let you hold me.