her hand fell to her knee, palm up and so gracefully curled, reminiscent of a pale and grey sparrow perched on a bare, cold branch of an ash tree, as if it had been dropped in the midst of a great. terrible sigh. the skin looked stretched and somehow painted with soft energies of sorrow and dust, the air around it whispering that she was too sad. her fingers looked like the limbs of kind ghosts, ivory hued, yet, for some reason, icy from the lack of blood, as if her extremities were preparing for death. her nails white and weak, cut short, and clean. the hand looked like exhaustion, placed in the pause that precedes an apology, or in that space of time during which you give up, relinquishing ambition and strength because holding your fist around it makes it bleed too much.. it rested there, trying to be...