Her breath feels like a pollinated breeze, rustling sunflowers. It gives goosebumps and shivers, brings growth and joy. She seems too alive for her skin, more than an auras ostentation, a potential explosion calculated but barely demarcated. It’s almost unbalanced, tilt shift technicolour on a greyscale backdrop, she pops out and drowns the world. The whirlwind whipping round the eye, stillness in chaotic check. Her presence expands beyond bounds, the paint on the brush, the stroke on the canvas and the easel itself. She is pure life, elemental and unbridled. How the world copes with it is a mystery.
She carries herself in a layer of lightness like loom woven cotton wool armour. It fits her perfectly and is incredibly fetching, refracting the colour of magic in indescribable octarine shades of aura. By no means her best quality, for some, sadly, it’s the first and only they will ever see. Of course, I’ve had the luxury of peeking underneath, of unlacing her gauntlets and grieves, breastplate and chainmail carapace. Beneath this construction her true face is unobstructed, so much more than mythos, it’s the unglossed but lustrous blueprints for millions of magics, fantastic strengths, and supernaturally untethered ardour.
A Few Short Words 