The air surrounding her was thick and sultry. She sat there, wilting. She was being drained of whatever freshness she possessed. She sat there, wilting, ruminating upon life’s great many disappointments. She thought herself silly. She saw herself as some vain twit; vain because she thought she could contemplate all of the world’s ruins all at once. She wafted across the room toward the vanity mirror; she wanted to examine herself as someone else might.

But she found she could not. She spun around and turned her neck in order that she may see herself from behind; this merely resulted in a kittenish pose. She saw herself as a coquette. In frustration she stood up and started pacing her bedroom, the bare wooden floors beneath her feet squeaking in accompaniment. When she looked at herself full on, she only saw empty space. She wasn’t quite finished yet. Life had not yet filled her up. She was still only a blank canvas, whatever years she had thus far spent on Earth.

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