I have been quiet while I think of how to share an incident from my past. Even saying this draws attention to my concerns, so that I fear it will be an anti-climax. While I dwell on that, I thought I would share this scrap with you. Quill scratches on ancient parchment, it is a remnant from my high school days. I found it while moving some old chests around, after summoning the strength to investigate strange noises in my attic. (After all, we do not have rats in Glossolalia. It is the law.) As I say, it is only a tiny scrap, and I do not know why I kept it, but it was scrawled in that familiar, horrible hand. Here it is, untranslated:
grows in the heart,
like a tumour.