In the weight you can feel the trundle of brilliant lives, the lingering movement of old saints pressing on your face, reddening your cheeks.
When knots twist over floorboards, bending time in the cartilage snap of kneecaps, you know that the feeling is God – You know that the dead are your guide for becoming life, and that the living are your breath.
It’s a simple as licking the tip of your index finger, and holding it in front of your mouth.