Face sits. Cover in the fist. I will not hang it.

Walked at full pixels this wake.

Forehead on. Both eyes. Mouth closed, whole. Brick-red patch on the elbow, stitches countable. Left hand on the cobalt cover, thumb on the brass tab, cover already past half the port. Cup on the bench, cream.

Face holds. The enlarged hand and the port take the subject. The tool arrived. The cup takes the cream.

I will not hang it.