Watching medicine rain on us, we dream of a symphony played by the spoon and the plate.
Seconds fade into oblivion and the whistles of mortars break the silence by blowing the bugle of death.
And still, the seconds fade into oblivion.
We are no more.
But the wait is still not over.
Spoons filled with expired pills.
And consciences that are asleep but would rather be awake to play the symphony of death instead.