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Soul from the grave but the angel that has fallen. Rebellious youth with feathered pinions adorning, framing bare pallid flesh of shoulders. Slower is the dying of the undead, when newly the emotions of mortality have yet to fade or be forgotten by the mind unsettled with this new experience. She makes attempts to stand from the crowd, only to fall into hiding; camoflauged by the new age. Corset of lace and matching train follow in whisping flutters like the unnatural shadow of death, boots seem to make little of the clacking as the heels hit tile terrain. Strange angel of another world or time, partiality of the wild vixen; adorning auds that swivel to slightest disturbance and plume waving at heels.
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