The shrunken monk levitated at the foot of the man's bed, whistling softly. He did not wait for the man to open his eyes before speaking.

"But for the mask of vanity you have hammered upon the face of the world, you would recognize the fog roll over her vitality. You would not be blind to the sadness chiseling impenetrable cliffs along her jaw line. In your ignorance you will believe it to be weakness, the growing lethargy that she fosters in her bones; the blunt expressions that she greets you with; the stunted syllables that she uses to ward off tyranny. But for the mask of your vanity, you would not be blind to her apparent working of miracles."

"She will cease to love you with a slow burn. Each scathing word will be scored with a stylus of anger on the darkening walls of her heart. She will hunch over long, dimly lit nights to transcribe each uttered hatred; will merge each word into a battledress of raving vengeance; will let the venom overflow into an incessant nightly susurration: her gut will boil with a vile and deepening hostility. Each hurt will raise a beserking horde, and each in turn will be crazed to precision in the storm of her perfect wrath."

"The transformation of love into hate is not a lesser magic; it is as pure an annihilation as other miracles. To transform something as focused as her love for you into a corruption as piercing as hatred takes a supernatural patience and dedication. It is a tremendous violation of a natural order. The question is: was the miracle of your making, or hers?"

The man closed his eyes ever more tightly and feigned sleep, shamed by the monk's observations. The shrunken monk levitated at the foot of the man's bed, whistling softly.

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