She knows she is characterised by displeasing textures.

Her demeanour has been derived from an origin of melodic laughter, crooked nails and crippling waves of thoughts. She likes to entertain herself with the belief that her outward projection represents a sanguine yellow, but she knows it resembles a muddy orange.

Perhaps this image of her is a product of her playful hair. It spirals out of any constraints she imposes on it, and mocks her ability to control its descent. She is weathered and tired from her failed attempts.

She can also blame it on the raised marks that cover her face. When darkness falls, she compares them to constellations. But the sun's bitter light exposes them for the blemishes that they truly are. The realisation always settles her back into a stupor of melancholy.

To ponder upon these things results in a tensing of her fingers and a twitching of the mind. Heat mottles her cheeks, and her breathing becomes disjointed. She is a twisted replica of paranoia and fear, and she despises how they have evolved and become an inherent part of her. It twists and grips her mind, simultaneously binding her lips and cracking her voice.

She turns to the pools of her eyes. Her final judgement.

They are crystalline beings, clandestine and illicit. Foam roils, and threatens to burst out of their milky oasis. Light continues to radiate off of them, and the yellow morning light is reflected out of their depths.