Steadily, she approaches me, hands bound behind her back, observing and forming judgements, discerning our essence, or lack. Does she know? Wait! What would she know? I've nothing to hide, nothing to show! Could it be she's a clairvoyant? In their daunting, cryptic ways? Is she a mystic a gypsy? Does she know of all our days? Can she read between--beyond the surface? Seeking through obscurity? Can she tell who are the martyrs? The traitors and betrayed? Does she know of all the secrets in the diamond dusk of age? Or can she read through the stories of the world, page by page? Alas, as she stands there, confusedly staring into my face's voids, I cannot help but wonder, who has sanity, and who's devoid...