margins raze she died with a smile playing on her lips, propped up by two pillows large enough to pass for plush chairs. it looked like she was praying, or building a bridge with her palms where a blind bird could roost. someone said she saved her hands for rock and roll. you remember the month she turned her life into corpse art. each cover shoot she sat for was a descent into the macabre no photographer could prepare for or hope to preserve. a friend who claims to have been privy to her private thoughts has published a biography. you won't find any of those pictures between the insights and suppositions. history doesn't have the heart to hold the whole of who we were when our lives were more than cryptic notes inked in its margins. 241129 what's it to you? who go blather from