Speak to me.

I think I've become incapable of staying awake past 1am. And perhaps that is good.
I seek solace in nusrat ali khan and similar morose melodies of east indian sensibilities. And perhaps this is another externalization. And perhaps it is. I wish to master at least adequacy, at least in all great romantic languages of the world so that I can understand their poetry genuinely, honestly with nothing but sincerity in my heart and naivete on my tongue. I ask for nothing more of now. I just need understanding. Speak to me in ten different languages. Let it not be beautiful merely because of my ineptitude to grasp nothing more but intonation and rhythm. Let it be beautiful because it means so, because I understand it as beautiful, without the incredible incredibility heavily dependant on the incoherence of my heart. And then I will speak.