Chapter Twenty Seven: The Hymn of Death

As bizarre as it was, he felt a very distinct singing voice coming in an endless abundance, a hymn of sorrow and fall from grace that characterizes the erratic, yet beautiful, melody of its own substantive beauty. As hard as he could, he tried locating the source of the infinite hymn, but to no avail.

As a Fellow of the Boondocks Scientific Trust and as far as the Digital Musics would allow in order to support their most unique talent, he could normally use his guitar strings to locate any form of sound waves to its actual original source.

But tonight, this song is calling out in the wilderness, as if asking for help in the oblivion, requesting a deliverance from the certainty of death, a prayer for hope, and that the treble of its lyrics dictating a supposed timeline that could destroy "everything that have been hoped for," according to what can be adequately heard from the arrangement of the musical notes that gives meaning.

This is the exact manifestation of the hymn of death, as he would later on discover, and this whole experience just started as a trivial moment with no utter value with anyone or with someone that might act to endanger security or the general feeing of the common welfare; yet, death is supposed to have a sting left in the wound that could ultimately hurt the soul (which is the period of longing as some might suggest) and result in the most unfair perception of its instituted form of reality.

And this is the major premise from which the inner workings of the argument is still trying the validity of the proposition that are derived from the elements of life, grace, and the inevitable consequence of death; chaotic, but bittersweet.

Yes, it was death. It still rings a bell.

But to him, it does not scare him anymore.

Despite the sound of a luxurious tone drenched in the identified major properties of healing qualities, death, as simple as it is in this certain form, is generally held as a means for a rite of passage to what was coming next, a form of uncertainty, albeit many readers can relate and would fear this unknown thing, as well.

But the whispers of the wind, the most efficacious agent of the tones and the melodies, the spatial requirement of the airwaves, must be heeded at once because of a certain form of peril that goes with it. But just before he was about to do something to advance this call, he found a corpse just outside the main porch of his house.

Death has already catched up with him.

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