The eyes are windows of the soul, or so they say.

Prettified by magic-wand mascara, her vision turns blurry.

Her skin then masks an empty vessel for endless breaths, inhaling powders and fuming pressure. It’s all a compact.

It’s got to be, because she’s got the whole package.

Her soft lips so reddened with lipstick speaks of glossy words. What is glamour but adversity hidden beneath a confidant with thyself?

Then she washed it all off. She faced the mirror.

And then she closes her eyes. Every 8-hour night-day is when she feel most beautiful.

zzzzzzzzz