The song is over.
Ashes or notes linger in a silver tray.
At last, silence strangles hope, and this hollow zealot of lust will stop his dreaming. He will surrender his ghost to decay. He will stop his listening, despite that there's nothing left to hear.
With what remains, betwixt vague tears - stains of black ink, about the fruitless trees he planted with knowledge and the black picket fence in which they're surrounded, he will build a fire and feed it with angst. He will let who he was diminish, and diminish. He will forget regret, he will abandon guilt. And in the morning, will he feel peace?
And in the morning, will he believe he is saved?
Exhausted, paused, he will do what he has been doing for 19 years, 11 months and 29 days. He will wait.