The present speaks of the past. And lets it mould the future, suppressing every arising thought that provokes the bearer to have a similar effect upon him. Every piece of the shattered oneself stings, and shatters even others, to be stung by their broken pieces. Life does flow, but somewhere, ruptured veins bleed it out. Mind connects every bauble trinket possessed by the dead, but unburied time, and turns them into glittering pearls, which are rendered valueless by the unforgiving world. The scene that apparently crosses the eyes forces them to let these gems roll out and sheen, just like the thoughts, which were once possessed by the very mind that has not turned oblivious to the past, but to the present itself.