Life is much smoother when words are not like cadavers passed to your ears, without fulsome syllables that lie on your tongue. Sharp. Higher and higher they rise. A cacophonous gathering. Banging and kneeling. Gasping. Breaking glass: a sea of you favourite portrait of your past now a shadow. They will not absolve you of your sins. Brown eyes dip low. Then you stop. Your flow of words backlash. And everything seems to die.