A delicate hand traces a thin line around a paper.

The curve hasn't come out

quite as well as it was intended to. The page is patiently flipped for a fresh
expanse of virgin white as she adjusts herself on the chair.
A perfect circle appears, flanked by seemingly erratic but methodically
shaded clouds, soft nimbuses. A finger runs over the wisps, mixing cloud and
sky into nothingness.
The sky blends into the sea until is indistinguishable where air ends and
water begins. Silver-flecked waves travel en masse down to the shore, a
limitless army forever consigned to suicide. But what; for all the talk of
violence and murder, there are no jagged rocks here, no treacherous cliffs.
Clutching the pink cap and eraser in her left fist, she kicks off her sandals and
crosses her glossy long legs on the chair. A rebellious strand of hair obscures
her eye and is tucked behind ear without a hint of annoyance as she
continues to stroke pencil across paper.
A full head of hair, long and undulating, trails to the left, the tresses unbound
and shimmering in the moonlight. It belongs to a backless, revealing dress
facing away from the critical eyes of the women and the lusting ones of the
men. It gazes out to the waves in wistful contemplation.
Gradually the girl with the golden hand brings the waves closer until they lap
the fringes of the frilled dress.
As the moonlight ripples over the waves, a solitary ray of sunlight steals
through to the artist's face, calm but focused, silent but speaking volumes of
the spirit within.
Sketch completed, triumphant display, nervous smile