
The MannequinThe sound of bitter weeping filled the shop, the windows
dusty and covered in grim due to lack of cleaning. Tools both large and meant
for heavy labor and small for much more delicate tasks littered the tables and
benches. In a chair worn and creaking with age sat a man, a man who had just lost
everything or at least everything that mattered. His son his beautiful Wilhelm
was dead, and all because of his looks.
Bill was tall, taller than anyone in the village standing at
a loft six foot two, with a narrow frame and thin delicate bones. His skin was
the color of porcelain, and his hair black as night. His eyes where a deep
amber color



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Beauty has its price and beautiful people (as are your bishies) are mostly taken only for their beauty and no one cares for their hearts or souls...
Beauty can be a burden and I think that your pictures express this in a very intimate and tender way. And, of course, I hope that I´m not totally mistaken by this my interpretation.
Lots of compliments for your work. Chapeau!
.
Griatch