Languid flesh lies writhed upon an imagined bower. Butterfly touch and honeyed tongue. Deep somnolence. Hypnosis. A meditation in fingertips and breath. No thought, no thinking, no weighing of consequence. No exoskeleton of life’s pageantry. Just these moments, fragments, a tracery of seconds stitched together with the quickening pulse of blood. I can’t imagine beyond this. No street sounds or melody. No television flicker. Just slow, deepening silence. A sinking. A letting go. Release. The arch of a foot. The painted curve of spine against silk. Bitten lips. One violent inhalation of breath and a final, fatal clutch of skin.