She holds a handful of stars and casts them to the earth like diamonds. They are the Horns, the Terror, and the Anger. She is the one who shall say, "Certainly you have this day become a lost soul." And she is made of tiny lost souls, and rides upon a horse made of lost souls, and goes about scattering stars to the earth, and becomes the blight of the earth. She is the one of whom men will say, "She is the tiny one, the large one, the one total and complete." She is my soul made of lost souls, and I often get lost in the series of many souls that make up my soul. And I am forever not she, she can never be I and I can never be she, though she is my own soul; and so I say to her, "Can I not be thou?" and she replies, "If only you could know how I suffer," and she suffers and suffers while I drink beer and make much merriment. I am cut off from my own soul, I have become the scourge of my own soul, until I stop and turn about in rage and say, "I am suffocating in this tiny box you have boxed me in, I cannot breathe," and I hear a tiny feminine laugh off from the distance.