"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