The woman was delicate; a fragile composition of beauty that seemed to react, like light, as if it were breaking. She wore elongated spindles, which shone outward from the centre of her body, and seemed to catch, like spiderwebs, in the wind. She was radiant. Her skin glowed white; her lips, blood red--and her eyes burned fierce with the passion of dying. She was the vanishing sort; one that grew finer every day, yet at a closer look could seem to be lying. But she never hid her secret; she wore it as a sacred badge, for in her heart her passion lied. And as she clasped the light, which pulled her in--she died.