About twenty shades of grey heaped upon her pink lips, only to make them as dark a red, so near black, as it was. Several years breathing all the hours the clock provided it, made her look so. Her flame-red hair, almost as if a week away from turning pale and brown. The golden tint was washed away from her skin by the rain that swept only over her, and her eyes as weary as a feather that traveled throughout London, lay there still and open under her brows. She sprawled there rotting in her massive mansion just as it’s pillars.
