Why does the thin, grey strand br of tendril memory br floating unbroken, undetached, br why does it trouble me? br br Ah, do you understand, br that what I must carry br is the motherlode of my malady, br the dust and ash of used to be, br br that smoulders, and is fanned br by these old, grey cares? br When all that I pray br is sometimes that it let me be.