She sits herself in a half-recline and raises wine to ruby lips as if to kiss. Ingesting bliss, a bit of burn, the liquid worms its way down empty channels arriving lastly in a small and fragile stomach pit. The moths there scatter, flapping wing and leaving room for cardinal red rivers steeped with oak and jasmine bloom. She had picked this vintage hoping to enjoy its fruits upon some grand occasion; but life and death, alas, have crafted different plans, have dealt her rotten hands that on the surface gleam with soapy sheen...

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(This is all you get for now!)