Portrait of the Mad Scientist's Wife The design is inconsistent: rooted at one level in the painter's art, and at another, in the product of my admirable machine. Each time that I return she haunts me in the frame. There she stands, brightly shining, within a sullen glow of apocalypse. Dirge light! Nowhere can I hear her sweet singing. Her silent voice condemns me not, but thus ends self-recrimination; tonight, I bring thinner and a heavy brush. Alarms disarmed, my arm is armed for daubing. I'll not look upon her gentle, too-forgiving eye. I must have peace: I have not slept a wink since you were framed. Goodbye, my love. You were faithful in your heart, at least, as I was not; my mistress only was that vixen science, with whom I sleep and wake. Fare well. I pray (or would, were there a god) that one day I can forgive myself as you have done.