She is safe. What is to come, has yet to. That, much, is certain. When the birds do rejoice, so do the folk who listen as I speak. Like the camel stands before the river without drinking—that is, until the herder commands it to—so be you. But then too is she safe. If so, then what would she be unsafe from? I avoid meeting the man with this on his forehead. Conversely, protesting does not work if there are no stakeholders. My way of coping with this loss of her is far uglier than any of the former; I sit here, on this log, lonesomely, drinking my sense of spacetime away. It is a miracle that I can still guide my conscience toward the paper as I write these words I hope to hug you with. Until then, my treasures of the world, I hope this cloud of sorrow that I feel will rain down on me. That is preferable over its dreadful hanging. Please, anything but.

ܓܘܪܓܝܣ