The breasts beneath which lungs immobile lie as if in state, fail to rise and fall with a cadence kin to breathing, colour like a frozen pond, aureoles once vivacious fading into pallor, pores as fine as porcelain losing their lustrous depth, skin that formerly detected the faintest of fondling numb to all sensation. Odd how bodies pumping blood and circulating oxygen are viewed with rapt attention, whereas those bereft of vital signs are greeted with disinterest... verging on disdain... as if the living were indignant when confronted by the dead who forfeit human membership once becoming objects not subjects, an it to be interred or expeditiously incinerated, demonstrating the lie of immortality; what to do with what (?), is the stultifying  question: Rockefeller's beloved un-revived... thus no longer his beloved... instead a disposal problem... no more reverently extant than some undocumented alien... off the record... nonexistent legally, socially, practically... except for Yvette's sad corpse... sprawling like  a stubborn accusation... mocking aching muscles ineffectually spent... an hour of urgent effort reaping nothing save exhaustion... frustration... self-recrimination... anger and regret... his own disastrous rampage having set all hope  on fire, his only chance to sustain life reduced to fumes and ashes, a single drop of insupportable grief leaking from his eye, and falling like a wren whose heart gives out mid-flight.