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Burgundy

In ruby-hued satin, she pirouettes alone, Her form a silhouette against the tone Of evening's blush, where shadows softly play, Amidst the burgundy that wraps her frame at bay. With every step, the fabric billows wide, A skirt of old-money elegance inside, Yet her bare skin glistens like polished stone, Ethereal, untainted, utterly her own. Her arms, entwined, create a pose of grace, A Botticelli vision in a modern space, As if the nymphs of ancient lore had come, To dance and twirl, unbound by mortal thumb. Time stands still in this suspended scene, Where art and life entwine, a sanguine dream, Of freedom's fleeting nature and its hold, On hearts that beat within a living mold. She is a vision born of color, light, And the intoxicating thrill of unbridled might, A fleeting moment preserved in embered thought, Of a woman bold, in radiance untaught.
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Window Women

The city thrummed with a tireless energy, a symphony of movement and noise, yet it held its quiet, constant observers. Behold! The window women of the city.


They were everywhere, yet nowhere, solitary fixtures in ornate sills and stark modern frames. With mugs of steaming black coffee clutched like secrets or delicate teacups resting on knees, they watched. A woman with silver hair, her elbow propped, gazing down at the morning rush. Another, younger, sketching blurred figures on a pad, her eyes darting, absorbing. A third, perhaps just dreaming, lost in the shifting patterns of light on brick.


They saw the hurried footsteps of the morning commute, the fleeting shared smiles between lovers, the solitary delivery truck winding through narrow streets. They were witnesses to micro-dramas, chroniclers of the city's breathing pattern. Their gazes were long, discerning, soaking in the mundane and the magnificent, all from their elevated, silent perches.



From their windows, life unfolded like a silent film, soundtracked only by the distant hum of traffic. They were the city's quiet heartbeats, providing an unseen anchor, connected by the invisible threads of collective solitude. They were the city’s eyes, and through their watchful, tranquil gazes, the city truly saw itself. 

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