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“His devotion to jazz was primary,” she said, as she finished off a second glass of Bailey’s. Someday my prince will come, she said, without scare quotes or inverted commas, the drums of a certain Paul Motian, December 15th Nineteen Fifty Eight not simply a beat- a subtle interplay like walking out of West Fourth Street the ghost of the Iceman Cometh and Willa Sibert Cather on Washington Square Unnecessary Noise Prohibited, reads the sign

After Turner View on the lake: a town at the foot of mountains surrounds the lake. Brush drawing in grey wash and graphite. The fog changes with the heat like the copy of a watercolour, (the original an unidentified piece) like morning breath in winter or the resemblance of a simile Como not comparison but question cómo the lake between the peaks, a puddle of malty hops.

Están pintando una casa. Le preguntan a los interesados, vecinos y habitantes: “¿cómo y de qué color creen ustedes que la debería pintar?” De muchos, sólo unos cuantos, contados, responden. En este caso lo imaginan más bien nadie. Pasa el tiempo. Después de mucho esfuerzo en solitario terminan de pintar la casa. Brilla bajo el sol.

Raskolnikov is dreaming someone else is dreaming with the sea. Raskolnikov, Everyman needs a place to go to. In a tin of biscuits of all places –the childhood of the magician– a Japanese painting painted within another landscape. In my dream the student is in Dublin drinks coffee & copiously jots down the words of the master. Raskolnikov killed the Ivanovas with a hidden pen. Against the tide the young man walks in rags.

You can keep the hidden treasures. Look below and say: these are my feet; this is the Earth and below the substance of year after year. We spent days naming clouds. There were shapes of animals. Look up. You can hear yourself blinking. There is nothing here except this. It is true it all comes back to this hand, these growing nails, hair where there was none. No, I told you, there is no meter to maintain these words in order.

Ebriedad y Cruda son hermanas. En general son veneradas en casi todos los países, incluso en aquellos de fe musulmana, donde las han obligado no sólo al velo sino a la prisión. Su popularidad cubre todos los espectros sociales, políticos y económicos. Polígamas y bisexuales, juegan con todos y nunca rechazan invitación alguna.

The Milky Way is moving faster than before– It is likely to clash with other galaxies. In two billion years. Someone will have to go through that.

Can the Muses be forced to appear? And what if, when here, they refuse to sing? And what if, when here, we just stand open-mouthed, in silence? Are Muses negative theologians? These and other questions, in our next programme. Don’t forget to crank the volume.

My computer is haunted. The city melts like sugar. There is no option but to stop doing everything and listen. The voice. Impossible not to shiver when her voice is here, right now, so clearly, so present and close. Sylvia Plath, forever alive not on her poems on the printed page, but on the recording, on the always-present-continuous of her voice. How can one long for someone one never met? Someone one has only read?