A few years ago I was in the NEC libriary and I decided to read the Tragedy of Medea. Reading about the spurned lover gone mad with jealousy, I came across this quote:

When in excess and past all limits Love doth come
he brings not glory or repute to man;
But if the Cyprian queen in moderate might approach
no goddess is as full of charm as she.
Never, O never, Lady mine,
discharge at me from thy golden bow
a shaft invincible
in passion's venom dipped.

It scared me, for love had come to me both in excess and past all limits. I wrote it down on a piece of paper and put it in my diary, a black book identical to one used by Jophet. We had liberated them from a big box book store, much to the scowling disapproval of the Lover Past All Limits.

This morning I woke up, rolled over, and saw my old diary, pages long since filled with handwriting not soothing and of all sizes (not in the Waldorf style), lying on the floor. I picked it up and opened it to find that rumpled piece of paper marked in graphite by a lovely young woman, navigating through the fog. Her message was for me, but I still don't know what to do with it.