Within the folds of half death, a sleeping eye, devoured where night breathes in unknown ghosts; a tender peel of giving up reveals itself. Sheet clothed limbs twist in subordinate desire, to sleep, to be unrefined and outside of skin moulded lines. A crucifix is over my door, the body; hazel fine. It drips divine down the darkened beams; shoulders pained with cute pinned hands; a gaze almost sweet. The muscles are varnished, the tension glazed with light tooled over, a physician's eye working through the parting day. No awkward grimace, no drooling lip, or pasted brow - this body is somehow more than this and yet still wooden, still a hanging ornament of lesson. Me, all flesh, all continuance of pulse, knowing as the pink and orange dots of my fixed eyelids - am incapable of peace in all my human glory.