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- My mother was a weary sorta woman. She worked ferociously throughout the day. Her hair became frizzy, oddly grey and out of control. As were her hands - fingers once slender and feminine now weathered - filed down in favour of stumpy blunts. They became wrinkly and no longer elegant.
- The thin velvety veneer had eroded with conditioning; its creamy varnish had been lost to the many layers of thickness which ensued with each labour of toughness. Splintered and grey, she had departed the texture of a rose.
- Her skin sunk around her bones. They drooped around the elbows, soon becoming sharp flagpoles holding up a melting tent.
- She moved anxiously, fearing the world would come down on her, pacing everything with purpose and rigidity, her emotions dictating the wearing of her soul.
- The morning began as it has for many years -- Shirley wakes up, gliding to the bathroom in her peasant gown like a ghoul. Splashing her face with water, she washes away the confused crustiness in her lids. And slowly, the towel peels downwards. She takes a quick glimpse into the mirror -- reality is seeping through the fog and her hollow face begins to haunt her.
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