Verdict

With only a bouquet of dead straw flowers in the Sicilian vase, he wept alone, next to his bottle, unopened, yet. A chill as company. There was no memory of having cried, as women say, your eyes out, ever. 'Til now. The doctor had, rushed and dishevelled, clipboard in hand, thrown accusations and poison arrows at his chest. To let him know, third-party like, what had been so unfortunately diagnosed today. He staggered out at last, the corridor was misty. Fickle spirits saw him home, and left him there, to his misère. He had forgotten to remember how much time they'd said, or had they? Another wave came over him, again there was no warning. And, perhaps, no valid reason. And so, he sat alone, next to his topless bottle. And there he cried and cried. When it was done and empty he leaned back in his chair and died.