observations part one (>frances little pieces of prose)

Her hands were always cold. Were like lacy white tips of her body’s black gown, streaky with delicate deep blue veins apparently tracing out the imperceptible tracks to a venomously vertiginous summit. Her flesh mapped and her mind floated. Her skin was such a translucent wafer-thin cover that I believed if not paying attention a mere glimpse could rip it off and get me caught indelibly in the fine net of veins pulsating underneath it. There ran through her celestial figure the same alternation of blue and white. The same in her arms and in her eyes. The same blue. The same white. The same cold.

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