Golden rays from the sun gently illuminate the crest of her cheek, weathered by a weariness of the hour and a weight on her heart, and fastened by the bonds of eternity. The masks are versatile, but the skin must be the same. What truths she reveals to the outside world may vary, but the truth of her soul which she embodies can never change. And the weather-beaten woman dissolves into the bondage of self-entrapment; how dare she ask for what she cannot have, because she herself cannot give. 

Her mind is ticking and clicking and the thoughts lick past her ears, and flit past her eyes, only to be caught in the web of a vivid imagination. She has no heart; there is only a locket looped around her neck, which migrates westward. The steel mechanisms writhe against the hollow interior. The locket unfortunately will not budge, and the key is no use. Try as she may, she cannot force it; she cannot wield the power of fate who knows no master. Quite vexed, she casts it aside in frustration. The hinges give as the locket’s delicate clasp impales itself against the cold, hard stuff of reality. Let it alone, the locket pleads. There, her heart’s substitute is broken and empty. The magic of her touch seals it shut once more, and she cannot crack open its forbidden secrets with her questioning fingers. She cannot yet see what fates await her. And yet, no one ever can. The metallic shell need not be destroyed; in time, happiness will leak forth from within.