Your pale arm moves purposefully through the damp, dank air, the meadow singing about you with the strings of lilac and cow-shit lapping up at your nostrils, as you salivate quietly in anticipation of the piping-hot cup of Earl Grey. Sitting upon a low-wall composed of bitter grey stone, you peer out across the dull dawn and make out the shape of a hooded figure moving quickly and eerily against the horizon. Stirred, your heart expands and deflates, whisking blood to your ears. A tear separates from the base of your eyelids and the thud of a guillotine blade lands. "Oh, sweet Mother, I'm coming home to you. Dear, girl," you weep, "I'm coming home, I'm coming home."