What Belongs to time? Dirgitar ask screening a look of dispair. Densel replied with an open gaped oval for a toothless mouse. Bass, love, you… Just as the spittle was dribbling down Densel’s slobbering gape, Dirgitar interrupted his sleuth of trickles. I know, I know, but what belongs to the fire? Densel’s upper lobe sunk to half mass and his once slippery blow hole sealed up like a gasket in repair, tight bondings molded with anguish. The two stood in the large empty cathedral with the lights dimmed allowing the stained glass windows creating an eerie shadow play in expansive space. For both men knew that it was the souls of the fallen who belonged down below in the fires of deep hell. Those who lied, stole, cheated, assaulted, infringed, harassed, for the powerful creator was not forgiving. Hell was run like a prison, those who violated were whisked downward for all eternity with a fair hearing or preponderance of evidence. The almighty understood human beings, they deserved nothing more or elsewhere less.