When humanity turns to be unethical to the rules of heaven, pressuring our lord upon as rebels and sins. Our world, oh our dearest world stops spinning. Destructions occurred, history is known, every country are out there prowling, ambushing against each other.

Here you are, slumping against an altar. Chandeliers hanging on loose on the ceilings. Fractured windows like grains of sands on the wooden old floor. Old wax melted on the pieces of glass. The large stained glass panels now fractured in a big hole, allowing the sun rays like constellation fill right through. Mosses smearing on walls and roofs like snows and ice.

Rays like golden tears falling on your skin, the way the warmth hugs around your skin, looming you like fire. Isolation is the autonomy. A feeling you endured. Vivid images, visions you've seen. Disasters devising with fate, and death teams with the heavens.

Birds chirping in the morning, tranquil creatures walking down the city from the woods, vines grow through cracks. How I perceive the world, an unsettling nightmare, thundering voices echoing from the weathers, drizzling rain pattering on skins like planting curses.

You stayed in the church, left abandoned, left to survive when you just seek autonomy from this world.