78 of 365
The excessive fabrics spilled over her limbs, concealing any form or lack of form she may have. She guided the fragile-looking man into the small room, directing him to the sofa. His white hair stood up from his scalp and blended in with the long grasses of the framed prints hanging low on the wall behind him. The prints, a triptych of spring meadows, existed as an attempt to calm, but all too often that attempt failed.