 This guitar has not been staying in tune very well. It's only 80 years old. This is called the tongue cut sparrow. A house sparrow billows her body with breath and surrenders rapture. A woodsman found her wounded, brought her home to convalesce. His wife grew jealous of her song and so cut out her tongue. We blaze it, trail cut in tongues, broken with yearning for the sensate song of the wild. Wild desires plague our dreams and the stores to claimless territories. The feral scent is keen upon us. We've lost our nature and have no ways. We are creatures of passion and promise. Because we believe in the impossible, we barter. For the child of Viper strikes out of an unrequited love of innocence. For Europa, whose honey scent betrayed her. For them who venture into Hades to unravel raptures of the deep in sweet, liquid lullaby. Saints and seraphim are tiresomely pious. They envy our sordid self-absorption. Our tactile reality, our terrible desires. Love, liba, believe in gods with feathers, fatlocks, and fins. Breathe sweet tobacco and answer the razor's keening by dancing with the sun in a stand of cottonwood to retrieve the sparrow. To claimless doors, to claimless terror. The feral scent is keen. We've lost our nature and have lost our nature and must. Thank you so much. Thank you to Kim and the library.