How do we come to consciousness, at age four and earlier? How do we know from the song, when we hear it, even if we don’t understand the complexities of the words at that age, that we are alive? How do we know that we are alive and that we are hurt even though nothing has happened in life to cause suffering, or so we think? There is happiness/sadness in not ever knowing whole narratives. That is where art lives for me, where the lyric poem or prose arrives. We are happy and we are sad at the same time. And we are hopeful that in feeling happy-sad that we will progress. Even at four years old, we know there will be progress, and sisters’ glossy 45 inch records turn round and round and you wonder how the woman’s voice could be captured through the needle that gathers lint on that shiny plastic disc that could be smashed if flung. How do we know that she is singing to herself, addressing herself? How do we know that she is singing to her lover, to her friend, to us, for us? How do we know, much later in life, that physical pleasure can be happy-sad-beautiful like this song? How do we know that this song is about our living and our dying and our living?