The earth is made up. Her wrinkles are smoothed, powder packed into the gaps. Exfoliated, then painted with foundation, concealer, shadow, each hopeful layer instead making her appear more weary. Her skin can be smelled from lifeless, distant planets; her natural oils drilled out, colored moisturizers injected in their place. Some of the piercings and tattoos, impulsive attempts to prove eternity, have grown infected. Her stylists are ill-advised; creative differences keep us from a unified design. She has begun to self-mutilate, much to the puzzlement of the stars: we, her hands, her artists, mark her as in need of attention. We invoke our unseen pain upon this common body. The unsewn scars from mines and bombs are not nihilistic. We are whining for a deep and divine makeover.

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