all of me is damned. From earliest beginnings, my fate has been solitude- elegant solitude, elegant loneliness. I let it walk into me like a cathedral, down its isle- wedding bells sound in the secret place of my heart.
Phizarae's features were more representative of her kin athwart the universe - pastel, frosted, scintillating - but here they scored her as an immigrant. The sterling shimmer of her locks, the unblemished complexion of her skin, the diamonds that slept in multiplex chain ornaments throughout her hair and along the involved stitching of her dress were startling to these natives. Puzzled by her mere proximity, with mandibles more vicious and thinner lipped, glowers more disastrous, and gazes more permeating, it was seemed strikingly evident she did not belong.
And when she is ultimately addressed it is done by her opposite, a woman nostalgic of summertime; cherry-stained glasses, tactful vanilla, and golden highlights. There is more pronounced in the unspoken and Phizarae initially only reacts with an investigative gaze, assembling her thoughts before submitting an appropriate answer to the stranger.
"I do not believe so," she murmurs listlessly. What aid would a girl birthed from the loins of a rich man's war and poor men's blood truly need? The grief of the cosmos and the dim weeping heavens had already rooted and propagated within her mortal, irreproachable flesh. There was nothing beautiful about the wreckage within Phizarae. And what of the natives' avoidance? Her thoughts on them expanded within her like bruises. She cannot unsing another man's song, and so she allows those apart from her to look on with piercing eyes.
Phizarae had always had the separated, faraway gaze, as though half of her continually dwelled in the unseen world of pale thoughts. "It is a blessing and a curse to be avoided." Some would say it was as if she was engraved from sleet - a thinly concealed, specter-like figure - freezing and synthetic and overflowed with isolation.
And when she is ultimately addressed it is done by her opposite, a woman nostalgic of summertime; cherry-stained glasses, tactful vanilla, and golden highlights. There is more pronounced in the unspoken and Phizarae initially only reacts with an investigative gaze, assembling her thoughts before submitting an appropriate answer to the stranger.
"I do not believe so," she murmurs listlessly. What aid would a girl birthed from the loins of a rich man's war and poor men's blood truly need? The grief of the cosmos and the dim weeping heavens had already rooted and propagated within her mortal, irreproachable flesh. There was nothing beautiful about the wreckage within Phizarae. And what of the natives' avoidance? Her thoughts on them expanded within her like bruises. She cannot unsing another man's song, and so she allows those apart from her to look on with piercing eyes.
Phizarae had always had the separated, faraway gaze, as though half of her continually dwelled in the unseen world of pale thoughts. "It is a blessing and a curse to be avoided." Some would say it was as if she was engraved from sleet - a thinly concealed, specter-like figure - freezing and synthetic and overflowed with isolation.
"."
Phizarae
the winteress
