Up there, the sweet plain girls would possess the incandescent beauty of immortality, removed from the stress of status, smiling, gliding, singing, free at last to be above it all.
But let’s face it. Wallace Stevens had it right. Mystical death is the mother of beauty. Our non-sentient bodies must feed the root of willows bending over our forgotten flesh, in boughs where birds nest and trill and feed their hatchlings.