To not mind your own good looks is as close to angelic as you're going to get unless you happen to notice what a hard time they have negotiating your mirror, trying for your sake not to disappear, but for whose sake is it really that you persevere in this field of obstacles to the dark nowhere in which we dip our toes? For whose sake do we bother to define ourselves when we could stand still as if the door had been torn away and our nightmares invited to enter, the hard work of our desires, the utter nakedness of our intuitions about each other, our helplessness?
I love every word you write.