With her clear gaze and soft little smile she shows you the same good-natured indifference she'd show everyone in the world. She's content and never ecstatic, exact and never anxious, amiable and never aflame. Immune to passion's fire, she feels neither the burn nor the warmth. Everyone's friend and no one's foe. No one's lover, either.
Clean white sheets and neatly stacked books, that's what she's like. "True," you'll say, "but there's more. The sheets are silken and the books fine poetry. Just lean over and look closer."
But then she'll look at you and smile and say it's cotton actually, and the books are blank.
"Why have books if they're blank?"
Well, just look how lovely the covers are.
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