The strings of time, part in part, the claws of silence. We were silence of our bodies. His written lines of life on the flesh of our bodies. Written tree book. Written hands of memories. Marked by air holes. They looked at the heads. Their mouths were smiling. Speak bald. Dirty look. A state where necks dance. They dance backwards. Bones are broken and they confess pain. Underground. Missing. The light is closed under the gates of heaven.

Sense, then ex-isto as a hypo/thesis.