Moments ago, i saw her swiftly slip away; a crimson tide of autumn leaves at her heels. Shes there, right there in the forest; deep inside a thorny web of rose bushes gathered under the shade of the old oak tree. Would you like to see her dance? watch the screen pann out towards a sunny relief; a girl lays out in the summer sun beating down on her back. There you see, that single bead of sweat gently weaving a path, carressing her naked form as it slides down her spine; a tickling sensation of exquisite form caught and held in the soft downy hair in the small of her back.Her arms are stretched outward to fully capture the sun's golden rays; the mere hint of a golden breast pressing slowly into the moist green grass with every breath being our only reminder that this is living beauty and not a statue. She looks up and smiles with slightly parted lips and quicksilver in her eyes, well aware of her watchers staring at her form. She beckons...It is sad that an instant message on a glaring computer screen should disrupt such a willing imagination yet explains in one instance why modern works are often fractured and somewhat dysfunctional.