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She often waited for days for him to come. Silently sitting, she pondered the mysteries of life and the cosmos. Every now and again she would scribble in her notebook or type the occasional equation into the computer on the desk. The thoughts came slower as the days passed. The miraculous lines of connection, that wove the history and nature of the world together, paled into minute, shimmering wisps which floated in her consciousness but refused to be re-forged into coherence. The knowledge was becoming an addiction. Each time it left her sooner. Each time she committed less of her revelations to paper.

She began to stay longer and longer hours at her desk. Dark thoughts lasting until dark hours, when a phone call from home would rouse her from her struggling mentality and she would gather her things and drive home, convinced she had missed an opportunity she would never have again. She mumbled excuses as she crawled into bed, not noticing the worried faces or the exchange of looks. She thought only of the morning, the time in her office, the hope of his return.

Again at her desk, even the threads were gone now. Her mind devoid of all intelligence, it ached for the knowledge with which it once swelled. Her head fell her hands in despair. Her wretchedness overwhelmed her and tears came to her eyes.

"Don't cry my darling," the silken voice caressed her, flowing over her body, touching every lacking crevice. Her heart beat faster; her mind ...

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