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Oct. 12th, 2009

She's well acquainted with the touch of a velvet hand, like a lizard on a window pane
A bud, soft ivory petals bound in delicate green, unfurls at its own pace, retreating as soon as it is observed and taking little of the night with it. A shallow and unlikely premise, she knows delicacy is not her sin.

She lives in the deep background, so much a part of the scenery that she may as well dress in theatre blacks and only move in the dim-light behind the curtains. Occasionally she dreams of spotlights with a mixture of fear and longing, but mostly she recognises her role as an extra, the background for other's scenes. When arms shove her into the curtain call, try to make her life look bigger than it is, she is only reminded of the unlikeliness of entering that world.

She improves on closer acquaintance, I am sure, but any potential for glory days were wasted in waiting for a cue that never came. Better than theatre blacks - mild case of shyness and the sort of transient face that is a little difficult to recall. Best to live in the pale-faced world behind the stage, amongst the greasepaints, rigging and discarded props, where in the shadows a sort of understanding exists.