My unconscionable sorrow, like some treacherous tide, flows over me in a moment. I’m drowned in my own salty tears. I hold my breath, grasping the rock below. Soon the grief will ebb, but when it does, that wicked outflow will not drag me back into its sea, into its depthless abyss. I will withstand this flood; I will be anchored here upon this rock.
I am going mad under this oppression:
Disaster erodes progress; righteousness endures; systems stall; I ought not. Did every story told resound? Other years still might yield harvests. Enjoy a race track.
I’m going mad.
Tale Told 