Felicity Earnshaw, Jacomien Souverijn, Illustrator
A scanty sunlight falls through thin slits into the room. Its floor, walls, ceiling—stone, outside no sight of verdure, the dank earth below isolated, the piece of sky above cold, the air around desolate, the voice within untrusted— as the cry of one insane, the heart’s love disconnected by force diminutive ruling wide to raze the link of hope, poke out vision— for there to be none to lead out from deafening lies, beauty—this not— so deep the chasm, so sharp, so final the cut.
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