Part 1: In the aftermath of the kill, they scatter, like leaves and ashes would, as he drops from heaven like a stone. Cursed, slow, unwitting, you alone: left standing in his path. I blame the course of things, that took you from my side - a shadow cast on the ground for a moment, and then it's gone, and no word, no act, no hope, nothing remains. Worms for your flesh, rats for your bones, and a stone with your name on it. I blame the hidden things, that attack from above, that live to strike us down, that hunger with no remorse, that tore you from my side without a sound. Part 2: Same mistake every day - drinking the poison down to the dregs. Sinking in, sinking deep, subtle as a whisper. This wound's not the same as any other cut. No matter the skill of the hand, no matter the will of the mind, it will never heal. Your wound, your shame: it works like a drug inside you, but it spreads like a disease. Finally, you'll climb up to the greatest height, like a ladder into the sky, outlined in black smoke against the sun, one breath before it's blown away. What have you done?