In the future, many things and their level of acceptability would change, but red polkadot dresses would still be chosen by mothers who want their girls to look nice on a first date. As an old woman, she will see this picture in a highly respectable magazine, and remember how, standing in the back of the crowd, she had turned away from the dead, ashamed, and face the camera, not cheering, not crying, asking if this is real. Later this image will, by coincidence, be placed in a magazine next to an article about the Kenniwick man and the fight to claim him as European or African or Native American, and, as an old woman, she will shake her head and say softly, They still haven't learned. Both will soon die. Nothing the body does is simple.
Heart pushes uncertain blood forward, down, lungs expand and fill with light.
I remember seeing pictures, I remember using a mirror to see as far down my throat as possible, marveling at the red, red, and comprehending for the first time that the inside of my body is dark and wet. Something like that the exact wording does not matter. All I remember clearly, is seeing the dark and murky body pierced, by pain or pleasure, opened to light and air, straining to fall forth upon the sword.