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The lord whose is the oracle at Delphoi neither utters nor hides his meaning, but shows it by a sign.
The Sibyl, with raving lips uttering things mirthless, unbedizened, and unperfumed, reaches over a thousand years with her voice, thanks to the god in her.
Here I am, Cassandra. And this is my city under ashes. And these are my prophet's staff and ribbons. And this is my head full of doubts.
...I'd never want my muse to be a singer of nothing but disaster.