The thickness of the rope wrapped around her wrists reminds her of anacondas or spicy shoelaces. And though destruction happens every day, she must remind herself that specials are not automatic. Smiles are arduously strained each second; bank tellers or McDonald’s employees survive off of grease puffs and sweaty palms. The salty taste on every bill is licked from our fingertips with each burp or fart from the riches. Though delicately is used too often, she had written that word down on every piece of paper she was forced to write. She delicately lights a cigarette. He delicately fingers through his razors. The dog delicately whimpers from its cancer. Light the match and save a forest/trailer park by utilizing population control. Her eyes are magnificent, you know. A color I have seen too often, but it is different when those eyes are looking directly at you, not in an especially caring way, but you see this wave of intense security. It is sweeter when those trite eyes stare at you like you are incredibly talented in some fashion. Striking a chord in my mind, she sits up on the disgusting gray couch, completely mindless just staring at me. Her fuschia hair sticks in most directions in an awfully ugly way. Her natural brown hair color is seeping through it in streaks, but I still love it anyways. I may have accidentally awoken her, which she despises me for, I can feel that. But I leave in a few hours so she should be sitting closer. Her legs are bent at the knees and she’s sitting on the couch like an upside down V and I have always wondered how people sleep like that, with their legs halfway suspended. The strain from her dripping eyes is drained into her hands, which are entirely unique and smeared with mascara or some sort of blackness. Her tanned hands have no veins; her fingers are rounded and medium-sized, calloused from a guitar I’ve never seen. But it’s the mascara that drags my attention away. It’s the ugliest.