This anthology is descrepant. It showcases a progression playing up your appeal. A zillion false images making it problematic to find the allure. I could ransack your face while you’re catching some zzz’s. Creep away with your peepers and pout. Instead, I find myself clicking through a hall of mirrors with a single digit. The possibilities are endless, you could wake up, rip off the linens and leave me. Unlikely unless you found out. It’s more likely for me to close my eyes against the silhouette of dusk. Bent over your sleeping form, tracing a finger around the likeness of you. To pastiche once-writhing effigies. To solemnize.