Men, dogs, birds, butterflies, their shadows all there is, not bleached the instant like an eon ere they vaporized, are printed on the pavement; and the girls who walk away wear fabric patterns : birds, bees, bursting star shapes - any dark thing scorch-imprinted on their naked skin. Whoever comes back by the coffin door with tales of hell fire, do not look for how the flesh fell off - to bare your bones is rather commonplace in the enormity of horror; do not look for fire storms in the sockets of their eyes, still boiling. By the printed shadows of the fall of petals, and of cotton dresses your will know the infinitely subtle matter of their agony - the tangible inferno. Then you will believe eternal dying.
