Cosmic Love, with its dark and restrained elements, like a tale from the Brothers Grimm, is a song for the fallen. Florence calls out like an owl, Woo, woo, woo, woo, at the midway point, just after the second chorus in. In that tremulous voice is an expansive universe.
I hear in that song a woman who acknowledges and listens to emotion. She believes, people sometimes cry. It’s not a failing, the tell-tale trait or province of a female. Tears are lit plasma among the darkness and density. But not for too long, because soon after, Florence will tease through exaggeration: they have been blown-out/ you left me in the dark.
The rest of the story: girls don’t crumple under household problems. The usurer chants in front of a fire; three godmothers tell a lie; there is a tub to sit under.
Let Florence sweep you into the crook of her orbit. She sings a song risen from the margins of a lower plane.
