The breasts beneath which lungs immobile lie as if in state, fail to rise and fall with a cadence kin to breathing, their color 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 fondle 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 'things,' 'remains' to be interred or expeditiously incinerated, demonstrating the lie of immortality; what to do with what (?), is the stultifying  question: Rockefeller's beloved is 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 Suzette's sad corpse... sprawling like  a stubborn accusation... mocking exhausted muscles ineffectually spent... an hour of urgent effort reaping nothing save frustration... self-recrimination... anger and regret... his own disastrous rampage having set all hope on fire, his only chance to sustain her life reduced to fumes and ashes, a single drop of insupportable grief leaking from Sam's right eye, now falling like a wren whose heart gives out mid-flight.