Ceaset screams into the dead expanse of his face like the contradiction of vast sunny blue winter skies. Noises filled with the scent of strong coffee and the cries of exotic birds. These are no longer words. She claims. Only guttural throaty interpretations of the way knives feel slicing open the soft bellies of skin. Or wrenching hair from a scalp. Until her sounds stop too much like eyes cried useless and dry. He's gone now. And she can only just write him letters in a book she keeps hidden in the drawer with the take-away menus and chop sticks.