It is not about her career, but her confession about her pitiful self- tears up when there’s no candy in wrapper, sound from a finger snap, and aroma from drops of amber wood perfume... She hugs the pumpkin with her fragile and lanky body; predictably, the hardened, battle-scarred skin of the pumpkin pushes her way back.

Could’ve been, two words too often mentioned but never ever realized. It is the sloe-mo, Sensational, melodic beat that carries her life throughout- pots where she parks, and posture, adjusts itself a minute or two. A much need description for something not much needing of an utter.

Pretty, also anticipated, the fruit of labor gets snatched and dumped in a basket full of undetermined identities. Every movement goes against the wind, rhythm, and script of living. Sky gets bluer, the two cutie-pies are then seated and settled on table.