The remittance from the chandelier of not-candles, but in fact lights in the shape of candles (at least there is some consideration of class), heighten the glow in her eyes:  a halo cataract in her green-veiled hazel eyes.  Her chin, the foundation to the face of chiseled features, of the bust of Beautiful that not even the most skilled sculptor, not even Michelangelo, can be so delicate and precise and intricate to capture such a design.  Her smile is weighted more to the right than to the left.  If only I could have a camera at my disposal.  Scratch that. No. This moment, this presentation—this can and should only be allowed for reflection and imagination only–a sole mental picture to reflect upon.  Why ruin the sentimental aesthetic value of a moment to a tangible photograph?  Why flip the page of an album or scroll to the picture when it can forever be associated to the chain reaction of some synapse.  It would be worth it, dismissing every personal significant idea, to ruin my thought process with this recollection, this face.  Let’s destroy mentality to remember beauty.

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