silken. It smells like musk and richness, too rich for its size, for its singularity. If you
try to touch it, it will fade, like the ghost of a fleeing fantasy no longer useful or
newsworthy; if you try to taste it, it feels large and rugged in your mouth and your teeth will never find it. You'll bite your own tongue instead. It's best if you don't look directly
at it, but rather to the point right beside it's stony exterior, and it will shine like a star
does if you follow this advice.
But mostly, when you're looking that deep down, you have to believe. You
have to trust that the real beauty is there - all rich and bleeding its purple seawater,
missing no point of exhaustion and knowing no rest. If you think about it, what is real
beauty but the belief that it exists? And why would you look deeper if you didn't already
trust it might be there?
And this is the slender part.
