She looks abused with a busted heart. The black veil is her sole hope to cover her deep scars. Propped against the sun-dried bricks on the sheer walls, her tearful gaze is on the tiny little pebble that builds her never-to-arrive mañana. She thinks of nothing and would rather drop her thoughts of an unfinished world with no mercy.
In contrary, she looks being all loved yet owns a blurry heart. While questioning the parallel lines, she looks at her veil without the slightest clue of the deadly scars. Yes, she stares at something unanswered while wiping the salt off her eyes. In her nakedness, she holds a white towel just to sympathize with her sorrow, her joylessness, her hopeless tomorrows. The sense of guilt rapes then murders her soul in slow motion.
In my sight, they are two in a sole soul. They are both alluring. They both define art.