Rhythm is both the song’s manacle and its demonic charge.

It is the original breath, it is the whisper of unremitting demand. 

“What do you still want of me?” says the singer. 
“What do you think you can still draw from my lips?” 
The rhythm.

"How your singer’s blood is incensed at the depth of sound.”
The rhythm.

"Exact presence that no fantasy can represent;
purveyor of the oldest secret; 
alive with the blood that boils again and is pulsing where the rhythm is torn apart.
Lacerations echo in the mouth’s open erotic sky - where dance together the lost frenzies of rhythm and an imploring im/mobility." 

The rhythm.