Her palms are calloused, stubbed fingers gripping the rim of her lavender skirt with an intrinsic meaning.
The perspiration forming a battalion beneath her hairless armpits does not retract for the thunderous cry of a man preaching on his extra-terrestrial pedestal.
Baby boys seek the comfort of their mother's womb as they splay their partially formed fingers, twitching nervously.
Baby girls kick out.
The grubby sweetheart inside the technological box filters the realistic surrealism into a myriad of dented pennies, clutching her de-stuffed, de-figured, de-monized bear in one filthy hand.
The other placed on the ever-increasing, ever-decreasing bump, where baby boy and girl wait.

She's too young for this, and you know it.