Northern Downpour Sends It's Love

As a true ballerina she spun through the space of the room. Floating on the sound of the music. She danced with passion and with a great love she listened to the music. Both the movements and the music were woven together into a pattern. The dynamics of these two things formed into one piece. It made her what she was: a real artist. And that was what she was. A girl with an overflowing heart for achievement. But all this belonged to a distant past now.

Her white tutu was replaced by a scantily clad black dress.
Her dancing shoes forever lost.

With a graceful movement she colored her lips deep red. Also her nails were getting their last treatment. When she was finished she shot one last glance into the mirror. The next moment was crucial and would slam the door to her new future wide open. This door was metaphorically speaking. But the actual door was from the bathroom door to the motel room, two steps away from her.

Behind this door was her first customer waiting on the edge of the bed. He was a lawyer, a piece of trivia that had no value to her and knowledge she would never get to know. Her heart raced like crazy and pumped blood faster circling in her body. The chill of the moment she found herself in was killing. On this side of the wall she was still a hooker and virgin. One step into the motel room would open one door for her destiny but also would close another. Sadly enough it was not a choice, it was a fact.

She started out as a true artist but ended up as just a stage name. Heartbreaking but true.
And so nothing is what it really looks.