This is the particular chaos of melancholia: it knows you. Meaning, it knows precisely how to undo you. Your mind becomes an instrument of torture, armed with a voice . . . audible only to you, a voice that anticipates just where you would go to evade it and arrives there just ahead of you, always. Whether it was borne in your genes or through some horror in your childhood it seems it has grown up with you. It is a garment hewn precisely to your fit by some unearthly tailor.