Saggy boobs are the benchmarks for rest spots. See how the wrinkles crinkle into storyboards of years past with abrupt honesty. Watch the cells above weathered layers, lift off with positioned promise to protect dust mice in the air. Trappings of foiled plots to exercise injustice become disposable scraps that slide off with the ease that defies gravity of youth.

Gray strands shuffle out of place with vengeance of when darker, shiner particles easily parted to balance smooth profile in the sun with jealous stares. Ridges peek up like a game of chase, that runs into detours of body marks that pummel buttocks and sides of fleshy handles. Once muscled bundles split into deposits that move around in search of final resting place.

Mirrors laugh back at sullen stares in the bright morning light, that never bows to the hovering clouds of halo that follows everywhere. There are breaks of gratitude when cracks smoothen with slabs of odorless products, disappearing with wipes. Dye jobs to rob away the hue of cemented graves no longer work hard enough. High-priced machines feel the results of labor while body and spirit aimlessly trudge through air to recover what has gone missing.

When you look deeper, the eyes have it.

The entryway to beyond the wilting frame of used up decades is carried in the vision of remembrance and the transfer of emotions to somewhere.

The eyes have it.

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