Crimson sleeves of icy silk, cups clink out of time, seven holes and thirteen strings. Rouge drifts on the breeze, cherry-red lips hold sweet wine, and falling blossoms nestle in one's arms as laughter asks, how much of spring remains?
This is the Thirteenth Tower. The world calls places like this pleasure houses and brothels.
Yep, this kind of annoying thing happens all the time. .