Crowded wrinkles, shriveled hands, an unsteady bone-sculpted mould. The depth in her eyes, a depiction of time, tracing a deep travelled road. She stares at her image, the damage and folds, from mistakes that her younger self made. Boldness strikes her blunt knuckles, crookedness forms, as the strength of her fist starts to fade. Recollection of life, selective adieu, far from a fairy-tale truth. But the fable of lies and perspective advice were apparently not self-induced. Her level of care, and lowered concern, shakes like a rattle of proof, that the stuff in her past was nothing but shit that her younger self feared to get through. Her skin now aglow and the wrinkles absorbed the one from her vision in mind. As her character knows the actress within is a fictive description of time.