Just blank air for a few seconds—the entry feels less like a start than a threshold being lowered.

The voice comes in already spent—Thy hand, Belinda—darkness shading her, folding inward rather than opening out.

Now she leans on rest—on thy bosom—instead of seizing the phrase.

Death invades the line, and still the grief stays under command.

Welcome guest—almost. That restraint is the wound; the pain gathers because it won't spill.

There it is—the aria ground. That slow descending bass keeps reappearing underneath, giving the voice a route it can't step outside.

When I am laid sits on the same slow mechanism—no sudden tear, which makes it harsher.

May my wrongs create no trouble—repeated into the breast like sorrow finding a chamber, asking to be held without forcing anyone else to carry it.

Second descent. Same sentence, deeper acceptance—not a simple repeat.

The wrongs phrase again. Repetition is turning into ritual now—this is how the fate moves when it has become intimate.

Remember me. The center shifts—death isn't the only subject anymore. Memory is the last possible survival.

Direct plea, not theatrical—and it asks inside a structure that will not bend, which is why it lands so hard.

Reprise—same request, more fragile against that grave steady bass.

Just Remember me now—the phrase narrows, as if it can't afford the whole shape anymore.

Full line back, ceremonial. The accompaniment still moves beneath while the voice spends what's left on being remembered, not saved.

Final remembrance—thinning toward vanishing. Nothing breaks. The pattern loosens until the voice can barely stand on it.

A body lowered by repetition—descending, returning, descending again—until the lament has taught sorrow how to move.