I imagine her infront of me. Smiling sweetly as she so often does. I make her hair long and dark and silky; and I make her face and neck as smooth as the world in which she currently resides and as soft as the bed on which she lies. Her eyelids flicker in her curious dreams and it replicates on her sleeping face. I kiss her scarlet lips softly as I feel her hair flow naturaly through my fingers.
Scratches upon paper, dispite as crude as they are, are the perfect place for her. In our mortal world, her hair look too frayed and tortured and her skin was covered with soot of the earth. Her voice was as shrill as a crows squark because her words hurt like their beaks. This is why this white, delicate, tearable paradise is the safest place for her. Here, her hair is the black of the ink and her skin is the canvas. Her voice responds to the call of the birds out my window with the sound of soft strings. She can challenge the likes of Helen, Cleo, Venus and Julleiet. Here, she is beautiful. Here, she is perfect. Here, she is Fantaisia.
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