I wring out my sorrow like fresh water tears into the lake from the mines of my heart. My notions of catharsis are repetitive. As the seasons change, my hair fades to grey; I sit by the draped window of my lake house. I am Listener, and those who notice I care are my friends, they receive the outpouring. I will implore the Prophet to pour out the wine of the presence, that we might be filled anew.