A magnifying glass near my face shows my slips. Pale blue, but prominent. It chills me somewhat, every night as I contemplate dying, as my chest seems to shrivel and the heart races. 
The mind boggles at the recesses. Each layer trembling with insanity. Each laughter measured, each piece of brain slowly sucking in terror. What music can embalm, what arms can soothe, what lies can cheer? 
What can one do, but put on, with obedience, more clothing, pretty, printed, coloured?