[ He lets him tell it all, without interruptions, and doesn't mind the jumbled nature of the telling. Where the void was concerned, things were never quite clear to say later. Snatched images was how he remembered it most often.

Even then, doesn't sound like anything he knows, but it wouldn't matter would it. The void fed off what was there. But it's... that jarring sought of beauty. Illuminated glass in dark rooms. Does his best to imagine it.

But it turns quick to all shattered glass at the last instance. He knows that note. ]

I am sorry. That's for me, not for you. Please do not take that note to heart.

[ In his heart, somewhere, there's a skipped beat and a sigh, and thinks quiet as if hushing a loved one, I'm sorry. ] Has there been anything else?