For life, collected

 Like at all. That's where you wake up. For life, collected. For him we love each other, sustained. Devastated. Sometimes, in the doubt of hell. Or the sky of the body. His infinite receivers of suffering. They do not precipitate into stoic ataraxia. Even on rewind live like a hectic video scene that endlessly repeats itself out of pause control. The same fractions of seconds are repeated in the static date of passing.