She stood broken, her chest visibly heaving as the now empty words rose with a crushing violence, crumbling the remains of her windpipe, now only a sheet of burning newspaper. She fell as if to vomit, to purge herself of so ruthless a disciple, so toxic an elegy. The sobs triumphed over her lungs and crushed her body together like a dying star against the infinite vacuum of space, the magnitude so great that even its contemplation lead to an inevitable, painful submission. She felt doom scurrying along the quicks of her nails, the follicles of her eyelashes, the backs of her knees, and the depths of her cavities long sealed over and forgotten. I now pronounce you woman and grief, said the wind. The next time you hear the wind speak, you come see me. Maybe then you will understand what I have seen.