Epitaph for a voice. (from Words, by Tristram Tangent of Jail) "A terrible thing - a kidnapping - a murder! - such are my thoughts as I contemplate Shiloh Turns. The Poidian alto has fled. Her theatre in Jail could not hold her - she cried out for the bleak hillsides of the east - then she ran! "I need the sea," was her cry! Now she lives in the kelp forests. Her glass house is painted on the inside, and with what? Why, with pictures of the mainland she left behind, with trees and hills, no less, and with flowers, yes, and birds, and all of it executed in wretched, faded pastel shades which disturb the eye by seeming to fade one object into another, so that each tree is also a hill, and every bird sitting thereupon appears to melt into its branches. What nonsense is this? if the woman wants grass and flowers, why, she needs only to bring herself back to the North-West where all of it rises up in abundance. Bring back your voice, Shiloh Turns! To deprive us of it is a rare evil. A voice such as yours does not belong to you - but to us all - if you do not appreciate it, carry it home to those who do. Carry it home in your throat! Do not rob us of our beloved, do not make prisoners of those alto notes - in a prison called the sea. She says she fears an audience - yes, fears those who do love her more than they love food and sleep. But no, she cries, it is not you I fear, it is - I cannot say - the audience I will meet one day who will not love me - or else - I fear their love. She does not know. Oh horror, that ignorance should ruin her voice by feeding it with salt water and the harsh sea-insects of the kelp. She sings and sings - for what? - for no-one but the waves and fishes."