Laura looks down at the fragile frakking body of Laura Roslin. I am glad I told the good story of that body last week, about the Mama Bear and staring at death, because that's what it is. If the world defined and limned and delineated a symbol of your personal death, if you flipped the Death card and saw your own face -- not some change-of-pace royal-blue-haired girl on a pale horse, not some Goth hottie with an ankh, not the beautiful and ravaged face of Emily Kowalski -- wouldn't you take it seriously? Death is kind of a bully because God is kind of a bully, because Laura Roslin is kind of a bully.

Laura's Ego, the thing that makes her Laura, is the Presidential Suit. And what it's been subverting is the Id, which is love. The Teacher. And all Elosha's trying to do is crack open the President Suit by destroying its sine qua non at the root, so Teacher Woman Laura can come out and play, and Laura can combine the two. Because nobody makes more sense than Laura Roslin, but if that's all you are, you're fucking it up for everybody. Presidents don't build families; women do. Without that, you're just the product of a Lie that never ended, trying desperately to understand that somebody, somewhere, sometime, loves you. You the woman, not the dying shell around it or the sick strongwoman ruling by fiat; not the vicious aberration or the bitter disappointment, but the girl you forgot. There's a reason Elosha only speaks to her dead body, as her beautiful soul stands watching.