Tears are salty, like the sea, and like the tireless sea, they rust even the finest iron. Only tears aren’t tireless. Oh, no, they are not. Tears weep and sop and wring out and leave one like a sodden rag, taking with them even the energy to make more. If a soul is dry, wrung, dusty, will the rusting stop? I wonder, when the old iron belt was in full-roar, and the smelters lit the night all along the Great Lakes, what happened to the slag as it was raked from the molten metal? Did the iron care, as the refiner burned off parts of itself? Did it ever cry “Enough!”, only to be lost forever in the warped curls of heat rising from the fires?