Blackfoot Forest come be the new string on my broken guitar

If he was Macbeth, bloody and ruined in the porcelain U of his bathtub, then the stranger was a voyeur in her Venetian mask, shrugging out of the audience and into the stage to get a better view of whatever depravity was happening in the bedroom, the bathroom, the ballroom.
She walks closer and closer— Taylor withdraws, but his back is to a tree, and he only succeeds in hunching up further. Whatever's on her face, fear or intrigue or hostility, he wouldn't be able to tell. He's too far gone.
Her nails make a tick tick tick sound against the forest floor. He stands, his face still bowed towards the ground, the posture of a dying tree, of someone asking for repentance. He wouldn't be able to tell. He's too far gone.
And so resumes the process of burial.