The story is missing, so I fill it in— it’s what a thinking person does to cope. Without the details, only Death can win.

And so, the panic invariably set in, the fires on lower floors extinguishing hope. The story is missing, so I fill it in.

Standing on a desk, he chose the lesser sin. The floor, too hot to stand on, began to slope. Without the details, only Death can win.

The shattered glass, the beams then caving in, could anyone sane maintain a shred of hope? The story is missing, so I fill it in.

I need to know the way his mind gave in as smoke engulfed the room. Who could cope? Without the details, only Death can win.

And out the window, like the smoke’s fin, he flew. He plunged to something green like hope. Without the details, only Death can win. The story is missing, so I fill it in.