The glass of wine fell on the kitchen floor after spins then shattered into broken pieces of glass and ice … When death was making tea the new maid was sweeping the glass to hear the sound of music then picked up the ice to serve it to the guest.
The tortured one on earth had unanswered calls, abandoned in the wreck writing a poem that will never be useful. It doesn’t exist but it’s coming … The worst fear; future. Where, whom but why? No choice given and that built wrath. He said this all shall burn till nothing.