Razors made of light held high the arches of her cheeks, a smile whose corners nestled into the yin within yang and woman within man. Prenatal intelligence shone through a demeanour heavy with an age far beyond the featherweight freshness of its youth. How could one begin to formulate the questions to understand its effect on one, let alone it in itself? To have been more beautiful would have been a crime. What cosmic injustice permits for such excess?
To look upon it was to want to understand, to not want to comprehend. Was to be made into a professional philosopher with nothing better to do with his life, for there was nothing else. It was impossible to look at her and think you were seeing something without a soul or a face.
How could she not be a muse, for all the music she poured into your mind? And so to look upon it was to become a full-time musician within no option but reach virtuoso level, lest the sucking pressure of the unsung rip the throat from his neck, the weight of unmanifest melodies bend the fingers backwards, heat of withheld harmonies dry out the fount of youth once and for all.
A criminal rage flickered into life in some part of his being far outside the reaches of what the words he knew had yet managed to make sense of. He was angry that something with such power over him could exist. Nevermind what had made him so weak to something so ordinary in the first place. He got to work on comprehending, using music and philosophy as his tools, and eventually found he was
