by Shiyang Su Will Turner When Odysseus woke from an ancient dream and didn’t recognize Ithaca, he limped along the loud, ashen sea, sobbing. In another translation, it was a whispering surf-line that he sealed his cries in. Odysseus, oblivious now to the lexicon of his homeland, grieved in the rhythm of the sea. The low wails lapping the shore, the tearing of rocks near the dark estuary —  Desire fluctuated between harpaleon (gentle) and argaleon (hard) by night and day. Eve