Liebestraum, dream of love. Liszt wrote it as though love and death were the same story told at different speeds, and they are. Bartlett plays it with an unusual patience, letting each phrase arrive like someone who knows that the most important words are the ones you almost didn't say. There is no rushing here, only unfolding. The whole album lives in that territory where desire becomes elegy, where reaching for someone and losing them is a single continuous motion. Young hands, old understanding.