These right angles are all wrong.
Angelic Pleasures (1943) by Dorothea Tanning
Bones aren’t straight arrows, they curve gently like a bow: Pull, don’t push, let go and watch your energy transferred into something more rigid and rote than you are, aimed narrowly at one point on a plane. That’s not you. Your bones arch sweetly like the lines of a harp, waiting for the heavens to part, wait…