On the day of His death, Friday, the altars are stripped bare of any decoration. Then on Saturday morning we come in and transform the surroundings.

We are stripped bare by the curse of plenty.

We are stripped bare by the curse of plenty

I offer you my mouth—
Let me marry my lips to the tops of your thighs,
I kneel between your legs.
I offer you my hands—
Your name written all over my palms,
the fingers I press against you.
I offer you my hips—
My apologetic body.

The foliage has covered up a lot of the flood damage. The islands were stripped bare. I'd never seen it so mad.

It’s only through the degradation of the soul that you can know who you really are; when all else is stripped away, leaving you bare.” Somehow, his black eyes darkened, the venom in his words more deadly than a viper’s bite. “Let me degrade you, Katherine.