A fractured spur of thought. The only thing missing? Truth and unwritten purpose. The bottles were a message of sorts, small echoes of victory to the bottom of the glass. No noose was good noose.
And in his silence he would howl, make the earth cry blood, break form until all reflected rage and hurt to heal again.
He thought about the dead. Osiris and all that had come before. How the Sun was but an aspect of her beauty, of eyes open to the sky. He dreamt of a better Answer.
"But Question the Origin of the Answer"