Such a door would sink, cleansing with its movement, evaporating varnish, pigment, figures — a scar return- ing on warm afternoons to encourage the erasure of bodies, values. Such a shape would gather towards itself through its neighbouring dust the eyes of the passer of doors — who enters. Motesmitten, removed from their feet on the cool wood of benches buried in the shadowed nave: a spouse promised to what lies after.