With the vacancy of the flowers, and the ambient smell of quietus; Death is always swaying to the curve of the execution of life. With the daunting groove of mankind during World War II; Death sits there in all of its emptiness and counts the myriad of seconds as it waits for the velvet narcotics to kick in. It lays there in its pool of indecisive love and tries to indulge in every little detail and story that falls halfway between ecstasy and a boy named Henri Tomasz.