Sorrow is a home where each of us may falter. Love darkening the house. Misery remaining behind the sweep of the curtain. . .as if, with Oedpus, we might hear in our speech the quiver inside rhyme, the immolation of hope in what is about to be remembered. Though perhaps inside this current something new may wake, to offer itself from the other side of the torrents of Lethe. Not these brackish currents of graphite and lead we have drunk since birth, and still thirst inside.