When did you forget how to be furious? Resting immobile, stiff like your neck bend over the screen of a tablet. Participation became a wipe on a slick surface, that cools down your soul and interrupt the coherence of your thoughts. When Themis rose her voice, anger transformed to fury and then to holy wrath pushing to action. But she was only called a muse by then – quickly forgotten by the ones that write history. Singing goddesses make it easier to judge, but you don‘t listen anyway, wrapped in a cloud that dispells all hints of temper. You are deaf and tied up. And you like it.