What can I say?

That if I ever wished you ill, I would will now that a thousand vindictive angels would fall with their blazing swords upon me. I always thought that you were braver than I am, with an intuitive, innate sense of bravery that I can only deliberate upon. And I see you being borne away now by a flood of numbers and arithmetic, with percentiles and scores, on a raft knitted of sheets of grid paper. Your hair spans the surface like Ophelia, and soon you will drink forgetfulness.

If the world was made for geniuses like you. I see in your bosom a singular struggle between what is and what ought to be, between the system of survival and the trance, the darkness before creation. The fallibility and the possibility, where there are no barriers; The book I'm supposed to read for tomorrow seems to cry out sympathy with you as its heroine, for you could very well be. I see all words drawn to you, you at the epicentre of humankind's greatest madness and revelations.

Love is not enough. I am not enough. Once my mother said to me, that she was sorry that our family could not provide for my talent, but then I think that if I had even a widow's share of what you have, I would blaze a path through the flood, and care not for the death of my firstborn children. But on the other side of the coin, if my family had the means to provide for me, I think now that I would have created another raft for you.

I watch you drift as I sit by the bank among thorns. I watch the numbered locusts descend and force back the Words. I cannot say anything of my own; I am dumb as you dip a cup out into the fetid water.