“Song of my soul, my voice is dead,” sings Cassilda, and I feel those words. So much time has been lost, weeks now, to this sickness. I cannot write, cannot think, but I dream. Effervescent, all my wonderful ideas disappear as I lay hand to keyboard. Nothing remains but cold shivers and pain. Let them die, then, if they must. God, plant them somewhere, in good earth, and though my tears must water them, let them grow. God, please, make me a writer, a professional, so I don’t have to break my body and soul doing what I don’t love.
Cassilda’s Song
Tale Told 