SR. SOL— You have no work left for me.
ANATH— Of the Herculean labors, the thing about cleaning the stables struck me as the most unjust.
SR. SOL— Where is your room?
ANATH— Off limits, but that's a nice try. Attend rather to the lions gathering about your heart, biding time at the edges of your lungs.
SR. SOL— I want to shake this off.
ANATH— Mourn.
SR. SOL— She was also your loss.
ANATH— Mourn, but on whose behalf?
SR.SOL— All you ever truly taught them was cowardice.
