Again, she blinks and lies still, frozen still. She is now preserved, immortal, her capillaries expanded, her eyes gleaming, breeding light that bounces off with the brilliance of a falling star, her sensation slowly fading as the dusk feasts on the useless messengers of the Golden God.
Again, she tries to blink, forgetting about the icy comfort that felt absolute just moments ago, and starts to panic. She tries to move, but all she creates are translucent webs in the unbreakable air that surrounds that petrified expression. And slowly, a clique of terror reduces the hollow cavities that hide within the vastness of her face into peppercorns, yet again.
She is nothing but a waxy self-portrait.
By a five year old.