"you only pick the goods from her remains, because it's only a persistence 

of this same cyclical tireless ordinance, your goods are your only deliverance" 

However, the orifice pulsated and exuded streams of blood, each stream was as scarlet as a glistening rose bud 

After her wailing, she whimpered with a somber murmur 

Fruitless and without form, the fallow orifice dried up and was still as a sepulture 

After lamenting, she extended her arms toward each fleeting vision until it would leap out of her reach 

Into a painfully shallow oblivion