Orbs of air, like weightless quicksilver, slide from my nose as I roll to my back.
The wind will be all that matters. And the rain, too.
... Death has begun to grip even me with its own arms, its own skeletal wrists bejeweled with anger and contempt.
...in knowing the meaning, i might control it.
There is a crease in my sleeve... what does it prophecy?
There is a symmetry in odd places.