[ wp ] Describe something beautiful . It could be an alien landscape , or a person you fell in love with . It could be a gift that arrived at the perfect time and brought you up out of depression . Hell it could even be a simple conversation .

*Damn* her eyes, they were hypnotizing. *Damn* them! 
 
 It was always her eyes that caught my attention, first. Even then, they were the first thing I noticed on her round face, next to that feminine, triangular nose of hers beneath her dark bangs. 
 
 In those wise, darkened sockets upon her face were those incredible eyes that painted the color of titanic icebergs clashing against each other in a distant arctic sea under a cloudless sky. They wielded the ferocity of a hungry white wolf chasing its prey struggling to escape in the icy snowdrifts of a Siberian tundra. Behind those crackling-ice eyes of hers resided the most stunning mind I have ever encountered in my days. Sharper than a razor, tough as steel; cold and logical, radiant and creative. 
 
 At any time, that mind of hers could come up with infallible reasons as to exactly why something is wrong, disdainful, or fantastic and worthy of attention. 
 
 That whirring mechanism of a mind could at the same time explain the nature of quantum mechanics in terms an illiterate feral child could understand. 
 
 Those eyes were the best hint at the most calculating machinations of thought that any one being could possibly devise. Those very thoughts were beyond the understanding of any mere human being. This was most apparent when she was in her element; her photography. 
 
 She could make the most profound and inspiring art out of a camera and her living room walls, coupled with everyday objects. In addition to the art of the camera, she understood the many languages of computers in much the same way as only the most successful diplomats and emissaries could in their line of work. These two symbiotic schools excreted some of the most beautifully surreal images any person could see and witness, forcing humility and slave-like respect. 
 
 She truly bears the intellect of a supreme being. 
 
 I might as well mention: her sense of humor was pretty decent, too. 
 
 Her sideways saucy smirk said it all, in regards to what she was thinking and intending to do that evening, as if her nudity was n't enough of a hint. As she stood in her doorway, she raised her thin arms up from those shoulders of hers, straight and perpendicular to her long, slender neck -- her shoulders gave her a posture of eternal formality and grace, the likes of which any Lady, worthy of her status, in older times, would be ferociously jealous of, and I say this with a total seriousness -- and hung from the door frame, allowing her breasts to spill out before me in unison. 
 
 Their voluptuousness would give a lesser man a heart attack, with their girth, roundness, and other various twin features and perfect symmetry. 
 
 Her skin was as perfect and pale as the canvases I often found her painting or drawing on, and smoother and softer than the finest velvet, as pale as the most sought after white-chocolate, and creamier than the freshest cream. 
 
 Her waist always shocked me -- I could grip both of my large, clumsy hands around that thin waist with barely any difficulty. 
 
 Her ever-so-lightly raised stomach muscles, expanding and retracting with every breath as I began to disrobe, receded downwards into her mound, a treasure trove of ecstasy and hidden pleasures, situated ideally between her hips. 
 
 Those very same hips that, without a single crag or valley or vein, just below shoulder-width, rounded as if sculpted by da Vinci himself, declined downwards to her gentle calves, then, in turn, down to her small, delicate feet, bearing the nimblest and most articulate toes known to any human being, living or dead. 
 
 There she stood... 
 
 
 My goddess, whom I would worship without question. 
 
 
 My obsession, whom I would sacrifice any measure of sanity for. 
 
 
 My icy queen, for whom I would sell my soul. 
 
 
 My sweet, sweet Sonia... How I miss her, dearly. It is no strange thing that I find myself sitting in my study, as I am now, prompted by a prompt, reminiscing of times long past. How I *desperately* regret everything I had done in those days. How I *ache* that I did not squander the time we had with each other. Now, she resides in the arms of one more deserving and better suited to such an angelic being. I am not jealous. Each day's misery is the price I must pay for refusing a living miracle.
