She dresses every morning in her invisible clothes. They are sexy and mostly dark, black being preferred, and they are expensive because she has dreams and promises to keep. No eyes will touch her true self, no one can see how she shines like the coat of a sleek horse in the sun. The strangers, and most are strangers, will never know her beauty. Yet, she must leave the house and face the day and so it is, year after year, up from the bed of her nightmare, until slowly she begins to tear along little dotted lines in her skin. Again, few understand because they cannot see, but sometimes she shows others, those with right eyes, with long eyes, with deep eyes, and she points to where she bleeds and they become her friends and together she sleeps with the depressed and the destitute and all the bodies of terminal illness that have wasted to nothing. Lost ones without family or money, without jobs and sanity. She brings them into her bed and she dampens them with cool water from an ivory bowl and she places an electric fan at the foot of her bed and blows a silk sheet upward into a tent and she and the other sick lie together, pushing against the world with the purity of their soft ghost. As one, they are holy in the deep place, the hidden place, but in those moments of untold breath, everything that is good gathers unto her hands and she touches her friends and they smile, they dance, they run pell-mell into the endless night of their journey.