Tales of a Beautiful Death

[arsenicwaltz]

There is a ballroom that resides somewhere inside my mind. The walls are a pale and languid yellow, lit by candles and the occasional gaslight. The floors are honey colored, shining with beeswax and reflecting the gilt of the ceiling ornament. On this floor, masked dancers twirl in layers of skirts and petticoats, starched white shirt fronts and gold cufflinks, and nary a scrap of skin among them. The yellow light shines upon green fabric and white bone, red rouge applied to polished ivory cheekbones. This is the Ballroom of the Beautiful Death, where things wonderful and morbid keep themselves when I choose not to let them out. And now, gentle readers, you have an invitation to gaze upon the wonders, and the horrors, contained within my seething brain. Beware, and enjoy.