Rachmaninoff's Second

It is sonorous blue velvet, a mitten with a thousand invisible fingers. A concerto for dyslexic mystics. The composer peeks nervously at the listeners then rips open his uttering heart until blood forms love poetry in the air. We are all haunted by the music. It cuts through our tangled underbrush as a machete made of moonlight. It speaks words you always thought were yours alone. Nothing comes closer, it incinerates and restores while rocking you into an oceanic euphoria; a personal ocean one larger then you ever imagined could be contained within you. Of cause only a Russian can dish our the pain of love and make you long for it. Only Rachmaninoff spellbinds while leaving you stunned, wanting to dip a toe into the deep tides of his God-space.