Living or dead,
no one's ever turned
invisible, since
as far as we know,
it's still quite
impossible
to slip inside
one of their dreamt
counterfactuals.
Just like how,
technically, none of us
is beautiful
or can ever be considered
entirely
hopeless yet
because, although not
immortal, we've still
got a little time left—
and between those
redoubtably
final iron doors
which stand there unlocked
at the beginning
and the end of things,
the little scrap of hall
we all meander
for a while,
although less
enthralling, is rightly
called the middle.
