#g.c.

Coarse veins rose sharply on the white clay, adorned the foot, and clung to the calves, growing more and more faded, only to get themselves completely lost in the stretch marks on the thighs. The nails were crudely sculpted, the skin seemed wrinkled, blood clots stood out. The image was repulsive.

Still, the man had spent whole nights carving those flaws onto the statue’s body. After so many years, his muse had grown old, her body had begun to wither, becoming more and more difficult to maintain, just a shadow that vaguely resembled Gloria, as she once had been.

But the man did not believe in this concept. For him, Gloria was just as beautiful now as she had been forty years ago – there was nothing faded in her beauty, the prominent veins and wrinkled skin were just the jewels in which the time had garnished her feet. There was no such thing as a Gloria from then and a Gloria from now, Gloria was a singular entity, Gloria represented beauty in all of its forms, Gloria was just as decadent as the artist that had birthed her.

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G.C.

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