Odes to Joy

Hypnerotomachia Poliphili (Canonical) · Track 173 · middle

Ink Does Not Require Rain (Murasaki Shikibu)

Murasaki Shikibu

Lyrics

[Verse 1]
Your brush holds the world you've never seen—
court corridors bending through your hands,
each character a synapse firing gold,
the page a living cortex, dense with want.
You map the heart before neuroscience names it:
jealousy pooling in the throat, desire's weight
pressing the sternum. Your fingers know
what your body aches to understand.

[Chorus]
You've written us alive, thread by thread,
your interoception bleeding into ink—
we feel the pulse you felt, the sting, the drift,
the way a glance rewires everything.
Your tale is still consolidating, still
braiding through our hippocampus,
anchoring deeper with each reading.

[Verse 2]
Long-term potentiation in the reader's synapses:
we return, we strengthen the neural pathway
you carved out—that moment in the garden,
the weight of silk, the unbearable shimmer.
Your characters don't move; they *become*—
axonal branches reaching, reaching toward
what they cannot touch. You knew the body
speaks before the mouth can form the word.

[Chorus]
You've written us alive, thread by thread,
your interoception bleeding into ink—
we feel the pulse you felt, the sting, the drift,
the way a glance rewires everything.
Your tale is still consolidating, still
braiding through our hippocampus,
anchoring deeper with each reading.

[Bridge]
Mirror neurons firing across centuries—
we become your characters, proprioceptive,
sensing where they stand in empty rooms.
You didn't invent this; you *discovered* it:
the self is written, rewritten, burned bright
on every surface it touches. That's the gift.

[Chorus]
You've written us alive, thread by thread,
your interoception bleeding into ink—
we feel the pulse you felt, the sting, the drift,
the way a glance rewires everything.
Your tale is still consolidating, still
braiding through our hippocampus,
anchoring deeper with each reading.

[Outro]
The brush in your hand trembles still—
still writing us into being,
the page beneath your wrist glowing
with the weight of every heart you've held.
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