<font color=maroon><font face="Times New Roman"><font size=2>.make it crystal clear -- Drifting Days

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Date Posted: 18:03:30 07/30/02 Tue
Author: Hermione
Subject: .make it crystal clear

In the absence of the hibernating sun, sable vested night was advent with an welcome reception from those of nocturnal status. It was apropos time for those whose energy ebbed as vespertine epochs approached to tie up affairs, so to speak, then slip into a felicitous realm of heavy ignorance and intensely heady, body numbing slumber. However, hackneyed as the cliche is, there are exceptions to every rule, and here resided one upon a maroon upholstered sofa that sundered the theory that sleep was necessarily trademark to the all encroaching blackness that was the demise to the brightness of each day. Manteaued in partial darkness, the comely female made her way with expedite through the calignity, moving with agility and stealth in an inconspicuous manner into a desolate building. In a short instant, ephermal in registration in one's intellectual faculties, her lithe form had occultly vanished, vanquished by shadows. Her diminutive body was emanciated and exhausted by all means: innominate bones jutting, tired face thinned a bit, making her already prominently lofty cheekbones more pronounced, deeply etched, orchid hued shadings beneath her lusterless brown eyes. The cadaverously pallor stricken cheeks were flustrated from the trenchant, bitingly frosty cold outdoors, which didn't much improve in the derelict, pitchy warehouse.

Ferreting about for an anonymous object in her pocket, she languidly extricated it. The probosic area was fervently inclined gravitatingly from it's altitudious position, and with tremoring digits of elegant conception, in a vagrant tergiversation she created a compulsively prim, accumulating pile of niveous powder. Her natural narcotic, tears of regretful melancholy, streamed down her august face in black trails, intermingled with the mascara that was unlavishly applied to her void oculus. Placing a fingertip equanimously upon one of her nostrils and orchestrating pressure on it, she ebulliently sniffed both vivaciously and piteously, satiating her addicted urge after she had inhaled the entire row. Ventalation was a myth, as was food. Sinking softly, slowly, down a wall with a moan of ruin and a shudder of decay, she removed a switchblade from the same pocket she had derived her precious substance from, gasping as she deliberately used the blade to incisively gouge her arm a bit. She hurled the knife away from her, watching it slide across the floor with a vacuous gaze that was once aesthetically pulchritudious but was now there just to imbibe the outside world in a hindered sort of manner. What had she become? She lapsed into silent hysteria: no tears, no groaning, just she and the quiet.

The pallid, smooth skin covering her distinctly viewable, clenched jaws were perturbed by a shaft of lumination from the plenilune moon, peeking in through the dusty and barely diaphonous windows in such a fickle manner that it was reminescent of a cautiously chary deer. Deftly dexterious were not apropos terms to describe her ascent, rather graceless actually, as she stumbled and attempted to clutch the masonry. What a waste. A precocious prodigy now a derelict, embittered and broken: completely riven from the fitful fever of life. What a fucking waste.

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