Her solitary life grew unappealing. Embracing isolation gained her a well-insulated cage and although it was decorated with sweet marvels and mishaps, baubles and beads, it bore little resemblance to the magnificent palace she had imagined. Her sensuous curves slackened, her glitter dulled, and twelve of her favorite hand motions piled up and froze in wait. Even she was confused by this gesture.
She's the stuff of dreams, silk skins draped in a slumbering, no-frills gown, slightly monkish, yet tasteful. Her tongue docks gingerly across her teeth, lilting just enough to dismiss sweet simplicities that land weightless and tinctured in chocolate or pinstriped mint. Not a small part of her charm lies in her glass face. She was not born with such, but by lollygagging along into adulthood, she carelessly lost her baggage, quite inadvertently cleared her head, and in the end, had nothing to hide. In addition to her love for Willopetian glass, there was no better way to showcase her clarity.
Partook in a song and dance that released all the bolts that kept me postured like a straight-laced mannequin. I can now turn my head a full 180 degrees. A new perspective, a new day.
A person with this much head action should at least be going somewhere. I seem to run on in one place.
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