an image resounding

This terrible beauty is a weight. 

Start again. 

This terrible beauty is a. 

Start again. 

This terrible beauty is. 

Start again. 

This terrible beauty. 

Again. 

This terror. 

A thing of the past, she says while her heart is clamped between the molars of a great inky vastness that threatens to consume her. 

She is shaken like a toy. Back broken. She stands for no one, not even herself. 

This billboard beauty. This echelon of success. A paramount of perfection. To be the ideal is to climb a mountain that was formed before you were born and has stopped growing. You claw at it, but the rock is immoveable. Hikers die here from the height and expectation. 

You will fall too. 

Start again, the monster says. It's breath sits hot against your ear drum.  

Start again.