The handkerchief. 

As before I discovered that a sunken drone could still look very intimidating, I imagined how it would rip a gentle handkerchief with its rotor blades and the handkerchief would look like it came out of a washing mashine. Before it flew vividly and still unharmed over the covering layer of everything rotten, it led me to a point in where, through something that once was a tree, I saw the snowy blanket that covered all, no matter if dead or alive. As the handkerchief gently flows, I cannot look nowhere else than on its genuine surface and so I forget about the drone.