And for me not Barthes but his anagram breaths is master text, the sacred cloth joining inside and outside, revelation and closure, being the garment that I wore for him at the moment when Isis was to be unveiled. Drawing into and from myself the hand that writes the twinned lines of blood and ink. Far from being a bundle of abject rags, the dress is still pristine and hides her secrets in her heart, behind the quilted breast-piece.