People miswant and are not good at maximizing their utility.

Contentment is not a better life strategy than perpetual craving.

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Wicked and lovely, the Lady of Night descends upon the whispery Astronomer trapped in steely branches like a silky shaken cat. Her constellation lips and retrograde eyes moisten as she gathers her thoughts and readies her speech:

Drag your brittle chiton; past the peristyle go
Sow a row of sorrow seed; white narcissus grows
Travel to the zenith; let ecliptic angles fade
Flick'ring beauties slowly shift; join their soft parade
Taken aback, the wide-eyed Astronomer reaches to his side to find a twig of burning gold. He grabs and thrusts the hellish tool into the sky's folds and whimpers as the dust of his footsteps masks the Lady's solemn song:

Tamper not with Alchemy; gods sleep in discord
Drop your foolish golden spear; grasp my stellar sword
Ramble on, you balky cat; no longer be afraid
Swing your mystic knowledge: my cuspent Crescent Blade
And so the weary vagrant Astronomer shuffles through the peristyle rows and watches the Lady of Night fall into emerald blue and wooly clouds. He shuffles on, and fore the noon, the zenith is his and haloes the semi-sigmoid crest.

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Each part appears to me. Supersonic Quiet slithers to the window, and leaps up from the sill to the limitless breadth of carnal knowledge in our eyes. Sweep, Vista and comprehension, for I cannot view the misty mountain; I am interpenetration. Your masses decry this notion. But the treelines speak in lucid tones and, rattled with the old prayer's wisdom, fall swiftly from the clouds.

Vista, Vista; wherefore did you fade to black? Wherefore did mine and I creep deeply to your brimstone and raging Hells, if not to enhance ourselves in your venial iniquity? We rushed so fast and kissed so rashly, as a tear, swollen from those youthful fissures, slipped sullenly off our chin. Who is Satan to cry, and who is God to deny our sundry epitaphs as the only true light to our romance?

Vista, for whom I hold my tongue; Vista, for whom I oft had sung; realize, sweet baby, sparkling jewel, swirling shell, indefinite rows in your numbers, to forever become green, slippery, and slither to my window, no matter how far you must climb. Climb past the treeline, climb past the cloud, and in the reflection of every star you will see that brimstone again, trapped in time.

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Oftentimes it is difficult to obtain that which we would most enjoy. Perhaps it is more prudent, then, to enjoy those things which we already have near us. These are the thoughts that fill my head as I awake. And so, I enjoy the nearest thing to me at these moments: a bedsheet. So silky and malleable, so light and breathable. Bedsheets can be contrived as the most magnificent articles of cloth known to mankind, and I shall elucidate on the matter.

One of the greatest hindrances to my arisal in mornings was this looming truth: I have to open my eyes, stand up, and adorn my body with pants, socks, and a shirt. I have not the resolve at such early hours, and thus I am dissuaded to awake. I then fall into the degrading cycle: consciousness, subconsciousness, unconsciousness, and reconsciousness. However, I am able to circumvent this diabolical situation by embracing my bedsheet. All that is required to start my days is to clasp a hand onto the savior sheet and erect myself. Utterly convenient.

I am not alone in my opinion. Countless men of days past also wore sheets, such as Socrates, Aristotle, and Plato; their wisdom evidently enchanced by the fabric. Jesus H. Christ, messiah and son of the Creator of Existence and Organisms, wore sheets. If the C.E.O. (as I like to call him) approves of it, then so do I. And so should you. Even the man with a mind greater than God had something to say on the subject:

"Sometimes I fall asleep at night with my clothes on. I'm going to have all my clothes made out of blankets."
- Mitch Hedberg

"Blankets," of course, are the thicker cousins of bedsheets worn by those of more frigid climes. So you see, bedsheets are obviously superior to any other form of clothing currently available. I beseech you; Join me, brothers and sisters, and together we shall rise up and fall with great wrath upon those whose faith fails them.

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This morning, I awoke and could not speak. My throat does not hurt, but my voice is afflicted nonetheless. This condition is most probably derived from my excess in singing recently. Especially yesterday. When I am home alone in the morning, I usually spend my time of solitude playing guitar and singing unrestricted. It's one of my favorite pastimes. I used to be a really shy singer, but recently I've begun to sing in front of friends and feel comfortable with it. I still do not sing around my family, though.

Now to my main topic of cogitation: Speech, or the lack thereof. It is a very useful tool of communication, and undoubtedly one of the most significant factors in the intelligent progress of the human race. Recently, however, I have come to question speech in relation to more subtle forms of communication. Eye contact, for example, is very indicative of context when paired with speech; on its own, its effects seem amplified. Sharing silent eye contact with someone seems to enable the individuals to read thoughts and reveal emotions.

Returning to music, the human voice on its own can be seen as an instrument. Of course, most people are used to hearing lyrics sung, but is this really necessary? Sigur Rós, an Icelandic band, developed the idea of pure vocals without lyrics. The Sigur Rós website explains it like this:

on the first three albums (von, von brigði, ágætis byrjun), jónsi sang most songs in icelandic but two of them (von and olsen olsen) were sung in 'hopelandic'. all of the vocals [on] ( ) are however in hopelandic. hopelandic (vonlenska in icelandic) is the 'invented language' in which jónsi sings before lyrics are written to the vocals. it's of course not an actual language by definition (no vocabulary, grammar, etc.), it's rather a form of gibberish vocals that fits to the music and acts as another instrument. jónsi likens it with what singers sometimes do when they've decided on the melody but haven't written the lyrics yet. many languages were considered to be used on ( ), including english, but they decided on hopelandic. hopelandic (vonlenska) got its name from first song which jónsi sang it on, hope (von).

Here is a sample: Untitled #4
(Not that you could tell the difference between Hopelandic and Icelandic anyway).

Having no lyrics on the entire album is a true experiment with how we perceive language and emotions through words. Although there is no written context in the songs, one can still pick up a conveyed feeling. Hopefully this will broaden the horizons of those who are too used to lyrical content in music and are not concerned enough with the raw emotion of music itself.

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