It's hard to be torn from your book as a page in the library, hard to discard the silk that you've woven, hard to be Cordelia or an open tomb, it's hard to leave father, hard to hold onto what little is firm, the grasp is weak, the tidal shifts, one never knows who whispers into the ear of a madman, black-tongued, raspy and cotton-mouthed, the hard words choked, "Leave this place, there's no longer anything for you."
by Ethan Milner of Ann Arbor
