She sat on the couch, wrapped up in an old silk kimono and silver jewellery she had found in a thrift shop in Japan. Nails painted and wet hair. All dolled-up for herself. A coffee in one hand and a book in the other. The story about inspiring women, living in a theatre in New York. The sun was beaming, piercing through the crystals and bottles that sat on the edge of her window, leaving specks of colour against her perfumed skin. The window open, sounds of different walks of life echoed outside.

:。・:*:・゚’★,。・:*:・゚’☆

She looked like a painting. But instead of being painted, she painted her own world, crystalized it and saw herself from afar. She was beautiful, still, untouchable and powerful without even saying a word. She was aware of how beautiful this moment was and consciously savoured every second. The ethereal atmosphere she always felt during summer was the creation of her own ethereal self. Her painting.

:。・:*:・゚’★,。・:*:・゚’☆

curtains, summer, and sun image