She descends like a prism-shattered star.
You know her face-in what she believes were better days it was carved into a million chunks of marble, but the paints were long gone from those, and this - she is colour itself.
There is no love in those piercig eyes, those lips, the high, broad cheeks, she is passionless, meant only to stir passions.
Her hair is the coursing flame of a river, and she is garbed in living cloth, a million tiny, adoring creatures clinging to her skin, their rainbow-hued wings fluttering occasionally as they seek to maintain their balance, their grip as she lifts a limb, commanding.
Her lips part, and that one fraction of a second is every agony of anticipation - excitement and dread, horror and torturous desire - upon which the beads of your nights hang.
And she speaks.
And your soul begins to sing its dying song of purest pain.
And BEAUTY reigns supreme.