  spinning: david bowie, neu!, ulrich schnauss, st germain THE WOMAN possessed a hypothetical glow about herself, one that took form in physical salience as well as a kind of aura that engaged the senses: a delectable although common cologne floated delightfully, and the sharp clog-clog-clog clattering of loose heels on the marble flooring. one could see her slight plumpness foraging through whatever imaginary greenery that lay ahead, hindered by glass slippers only a well-fed royalty could bear to - inappropriate to the occasion - put on for a little hike through the elements and the sheer roughness of nature.
she seemed a little out of picture - no round, lush, earthy greens to complement the entourage of pale cotton garments fittingly tailored for her modesty; and an uncomfortable mix of apprehension and excitement fuelled and cajoled her on. she stumbled a bit in the last few steps, but as all great individuals do, made a quick recovery and made for the waiting carriage.
the horse whined impatiently, as did in a way more reminiscent of a human groan the horseman who had the unenviable task of bearing the brunt of its nihilistic tendencies -- he lived a year in a minute sharing the breath of a creature that was sure to stop his if the damned vain bitch took a second longer in arrival. not all fairy tales are fairy tales through and through, it would be a fairy tale of a fairy tale.
it had been waiting for a woman to put the finishing touches to the black, curly mess on her head, and it was about time they headed for the ball anyway. the prince would be waiting. 
