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>With the blindness of lust eroded, she stared, deep into the abyss, for she knew at once that the weight of her sins she will carry forever till the end of her wretched days.
>The tunic, once beloved, became the symbol of her hate. She wore what they fought for, as she culled them on the battlefield.
> The mind, eerily numb, felt attacked by it's linked senses. The smell of gay, the sight of ruin, the overwhelming touch of the body - the nasty, sticky sensation, trapping itself in her pores. She had no fear, for fear she had only towards that, what is uncertain. And she was sure there is no redemption from this state.
>"A woman is only as pure as her least elegant piece of cloth" said once her grandma. The words that echoed in her mind, bouncing and throttling needlessly all other sentient thought. She was in ruin, as was her most beloved tunic - heirloom of once simpler times.
>Though she kept her head high and looked forward towards this new ideology, she was not quite ready for the cultural shock that her roommate would cook up in an accident.
>Tomato sauce, blueberries, lemon grass and out of all impossibilities - a dab of pinky fresh marmalade.
>Her mind was full ready-to-sing alibis for her mother once she inevitably takes a look at what kind of gardments her daughter brought back from a sleepover at her gayest friend.
>The smell; oh, the smell - it was terrible. It was as if she was there, all over her in fact. A clingy soul that now desperately tried to seep into her body. For once, she had enough. Enough of endless tyrades, done for with all her babble and talk, her atypical customs, her lazy mistakes, but most importantly, she was done with her disgusting aggressive aroma of a synthetic fruit salad which she carried everywhere she went.
