Sunken, shadowy hollows, facial muscle slack as incapacity—
 not the hard power of a death mask, rather the face itself,
 a slightly parted mouth, her teeth pressed against her lip. Absent
 the furrows, scowl, fleeting wistful glance. Not peace, unless
 peace is absence without relinquishment, release neither felt
 nor perceived. Some, it seems, smile.

She looks so absent, as if her soul had crawled out of her mouth,
 like an imp. What is it? Annihilation? How then care for this
 death-encoded species? How care for your own life? How
 relinquish in time what time has made barren?