India Song

Oh, India Song! Your pace desires correspondence. Are you a photograph? You require an explanation; you need a stranger's voice to wake and dance. Yes. You sit and mourn the death of heat by a droning river, there you lie in the mirror. Drag slow across oriental. Sing a procession of waltzes: matching suitors in black. There are those who never grow accustomed to the climate. Your lamentations drift and smoke in the mausoleum. Where is Michael Richardson? We barely know you. "In melancholia, the relation to the object is no simple one; it is complicated by the conflict of ambivalence. This latter is either constitutional, i.e. it is an element of every love-relation formed by this particular ego, or else it proceeds from precisely those experiences that invloved a threat of losing the object" (Freud, 177). We cannot fix the object

Inecnse burns by servants. They attend to the image and disappear.

The air is thick with the smell of mud, leprosy.

What do we know?