"If only I could molt," I said. If I could unzip this rubbery carapace from the inside out, emerging as someone else. Freddie Sayers. James Spader. Rod Laver. Duke Ellington.
Another sort of molting. Some hospice workers say that a puff of smoke or fog rises up from the newly-lifeless corpse. It quickly dissipates, by all accounts that I have counted.