Or the voice of nothing, that was your madness?

Unable to properly communicate with the woman, her sentences are acknowledged with a second, and then third whine. Each incomprehensible sentence brings Circe comfort. Each slow step brings Circe anxiety. She has slowly folded unto herself, first sitting, then laying. She finds herself coiled upon the ground. Shrinking in a half-hearted retreat. Teeth are ever bare but those black lips relax as short breaths expel from withered lungs. She pants, doglike, with a softened expression as if she were some pet leashed to this woman. Ears twitch, fold slowly this way and that as Circe attempts to understand. Help. Circe finds herself nodding with half comprehension.

Love is a shadow.