Amethyst was a beautiful girl. There really were no two ways about it, the autumn shades of her hair were radiant with the colours of a golden wood, the many shades documenting the dying days of summer. the sunset paled in comparison to the resplendent elegance in the reflection of her long tresses which were always immaculate and never a strand out of place. Her perfumed scent which met the nose of anyone fortunate enough to meet her was of rosemary and elder flowers. Amethyst was a whore crippled by debt, and she preferred sleep over the conscious world.
For her, to dream was better than being alive.
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