folds of cool linen like feathers and dew and a new morning on my tortured face.
smooth skin of alabaster white but pulsing living breathing more alive than new grass, more vibrant than fresh snow, more puissant than a yearling stag.
and i pass. i pass.
and backwards i fall, fall, falling but my head strikes no stone. a hand, great, carries me and i am laid up in the softess bed of down and white and pillows and a breeze, cool, upon my cheek.
and my memory erased and clean and only softness remains.
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