Where, oh where.
*Slips between men and woman, all stuffy and boring, ignoring looks and passing sentiments.*
*She holds a desire -- singular and consuming.
The music fades and the dancers around her blur into the background.*
*Young and beautiful, horrible and wonderful -- she is one of Death's most faithful servants, and many feel it.*
*Eyes piercing and steps sure, she causes a shudder to run though those who catch her ghastly visage.*
*Death, rebirth, vengeance, horror, calamity, love, sweat, secrets, money -- the gala is submerged, overflowing with sin.*
*For each second she has to wait, a new plot of torture and vengeance hatches -- each more diabolical and convoluted than the last.*
*A shadow, a ghost, a whisper -- discrete and unknown to the untrained eye. She watches for her prey, eyes piercing and cold.*
*She is the chill in the wind which raises the hair of those who mill about the gala, whispering secrets and buying respect.*
"The torment of precautions often exceeds the dangers to be avoided. It is sometimes better to abandon one's self to destiny."
-Bonaparte