[It's dreams like these Mozart can't help but watch with a dry throat as he swallows. It might be a sort of masochistic fascination but he can't bring himself to look away when dealing with death.
He is pristine. He is pure. He is untouched by death. For now. Yet the allure of it is intoxicating.]
He is pristine. He is pure. He is untouched by death. For now. Yet the allure of it is intoxicating.]
That vision...
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What of it?
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What happened to her?
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She was murdered in her home. [Then, incase that wasn't quite what Mozart meant:] Gunfire.
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[They're mostly said as formality, though.]
It appears that her passing was...quick.
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[A pause.]
As to her passing, I believe it was. I was not, however, there when she was killed.
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Then your dream is not precise in relaying the sequence of these events?
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How unfortunate.
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Your loss, naturally.
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I'm not sure that the loss could be called mine.
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