The ecstatic spirit is static, elastic, a revolving door of dense impressions stripped from the body, tripping away from the body, echoing the body, an endlessly repeated genuflection that mirrors flight. Passing through all extremes our flesh wears itself down until it perceives nothing more than the boredom of purgatory. Once in that unchanging state bodily disintegration accelerates. We rebel. We sculpt life into stone and try to make it bleed, but we are not immortal and we are not great artists. Purity is a light upon the bodies I have seen in a funereal procession. It is a light that attends not absolution, but the knowledge that what happened was meant to happen.