The poor soul sat sighing by a sycamore tree,
Sing all a green willow:
Her hand on her bosom, her head on her knee,
Sing willow, willow, willow:
The fresh streams ran by her, and murmur'd her moans;
Sing willow, willow, willow;
Her salt tears fell from her, and soften'd the stones;
Lay by these:-

The song continued to play over and over in her head. Why? Was this one of her foreshadowings? Ever since she was a child she was able to get ideas of the future, what could possibly happen just by some form of foreshadowing that would be held in a book. In the play this song came from it was Desdemona's foreshadowing of her death, killed to her by her love one. The only thing that was different was that her visions were never able to be determined in what time.

Reaching towards her gym bag she pulled out a pair of biker gloves. She used them so that her hands wouldn't be completly roughed up. God knew she had beaten up her hands many times before whenever her father would force training upon her. He had thrown her in a room with a murder-rapist, or even against a psychotic woman with unusual powers. He would do anything he could to make her his perfect weapon. She was an object to him. A weapon.

It was training without her psychic powers. This was her own personal physical training. Getting into a traditional track position she counted to three slowly.

one....two...three...

With a quick breath out she took off, sprinting across the gym. Right now was one of those moments she wished they had an indoor pool. Even an outdoor one. It was swimming that built up her muscles and her voice. Singing was one thing that she treasured for herself. No one ever knew that she was decent at singing.

"I call'd my love false love; but what
said he then?
Sing willow, willow, willow:
If I court moe women, you'll couch with moe men!
So, get thee gone; good night Ate eyes do itch;
Doth that bode weeping? "

She sang as she continued to run.