It all began on that day of days, its morning sweet, its first rays of sun sorrowful for they took with them the promise of - what comes before mornings? Quite - night. On that unholy morrow, I writhed in sheer agony: I came upon a cold sweat, I moaned and I groaned and found my hair wet with from the tears of the thousand attendants who, faced with my pain, could no longer bear its evidence - and can you imagine what it was, my love? The source of all my anguish, of such hellish torture? Can you guess?