"People start over every day" he whispered into her heart before leaving a darkened bedroom. And she pretended to take courage (or solace) in those flat words. It was dark and he'd just sewn the seed of a species of nightshade he did not know and whose roots plumbed a depth inside of her that he could not, and would not, fathom. Spells are often whispered and like vining plants seldom early announce their creeping grip on hearts, trunks, and branches. The heart of a man, what grips that organ—and can the same be said of woman, of children? He was playing a philosopher's game with a real life, real emotions, with a real woman—a woman with real roots. To scorn incur, and wrath, like plaster to lathe, sticks to the sacral foundlings of even Rome. And so to the sons would clad her curses, unto the offspring of this great lie: "People start over every day."
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