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If someone interrogates my aesthetics, I would tell them about my delightful job, tracking and capturing the whimsical elf living between the gaps of our breathes when the world slumbers into a stand still and the air congeals in place. Peeking, she would survey, tiptoeing every step of the way, avoiding the possibility so slight of her shadow intersecting with another's, and mix her labour with the objects of the world. Whenever one would, immersed in their world, stride so confidently, their shadow would inevitably cut into hers, and in which event, cause her little heart to bleed a little.

 

So every night she would collect her gleamy tears in a translucent vial curled up around it, and each night, with her collapsed wings trembling to the rhythm of her heart feeding upon it, let her shadow finally heal a little. 

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She sleeps on a paddle of lily that flutters as it sails through the threshold of a window seal. She drinks from the tallest glaciers, treads through the most mystic of the groves, feasts upon the brightest neon signs, and dances among the most brilliantly hued nebulae. Once in a while, she would tire, and retreat to a dark corner in our hearts until something within us awakens her once again.

 

Her name is Beauty.

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She who swings in the late autumn wind, 

and sings elegies under the midnight sun, 

She who draws elations from the mundane, 

and whose white skirts flows wild at dawn, 

- lies with shut-eyes among pads of sorrowful lily,

drifting, wading through times bygone.

Like lingering wafts of fine tonic in the rain.