Suffering on the foggiest level. Buffering to ward off the devil. Privately articulating the indelicate erosion of a china doll face. Unveiling the haste of hustle from her face where grace might have been before she fell... apart... from being wrapped in the race too long. Manufactured for success we digress under pressure. We try to be greater and find ourselves lesser, confronted by an anxiety fueled by society. Can't say I know anyone who isn't stressed... Meanwhile the china doll is made of powder and glue so when the rain comes she doesn't know what to do but cry off her own face and die. The china doll face that we doubt ever possessed any grace at all. She dilapidates. Depressed. Sunken eyes, damp dress. We say goodbye to her fragile frame and forget so fast...