Ethan.

sculpted, divine; in death there is perfection not achievable in life, moments frozen, flesh stretched and torn and left to dessicate in utter stillness, the memory of anguish forever sketched to the bone. the dead are innocent in ways the living could never achieve, the appeal of their loss of warmth indescribable and pure. greater than love for wasted breath. all the love in the world, every drop, wasted, except for this, found in so few, found in him, in the softness of his eyes as he gazes at his collection of polished bone, and some not there yet, some still unfinished, works in progress; bodies strung and drying, waiting, their secrets left in buckets, the scent of bleach just covering their decay, their journey to perfection.

if there is a god, surely his angels are as such, arms outstretched, ribs spread; these are all the wings a soul could need, long fingers of bone gleaming white and so smooth to the touch, cleaned of the impurity of hot flesh and pumping blood, free of their duty to protect, honed to simple aesthetics.

beautiful, beautiful. his touch as cool as the grace that enchants this place, unnatural in its organization and reverence.

this is a sacred place, moreso than any church. he kneels and gives thanks for these gifts, eyes cast not to the heavens, but straight ahead. his only god is death, and she lives in his dreams and memories, her voice the finest music, her touch bittersweet, the taste of her like sugar and ice. she looks down on no one, and expects her disciples to understand this, to appreciate her for all that she gives.

he does. he always has. he gives thanks in silence, and offers her his gifts once more.