They come, the faces, as one slibers past the perceptualimitations of one’s current. These are the recently deseized, sequing their lovied-ones in the Slurry. These are lived ones looking for their resentiently deisist. These are peeple failing, asleep for the last time in one place and wake-ing altswhere. Slaughing, crying, they poke and pity the still-stuck. Sometimes they dissemble in 13s; the venery for this is “A Trisk of Faces”. Other-wise call them a Remissage. One day you will face your own among them.