I picked a scab. The scab fell off. I lost the scab. The space that the scab once occupied began to fill with the crimson essence of life itself. This miraculous liquid's majesty was only emphasized by the metallic glow of the flickering street light. When the ravine that was once home to the scab reached maximum volume, the scarlet fluid began to cascade down cold and pale skin. And how perfect and untarnished was this skin, its flawlessness oddly accentuated, rather than ruined, by the presence of the red stream of blood.
If only father time had permitted me just one eternity to gaze upon this divine depiction of perfection, to merely bask in the extraordinary fortune one would have to possess to bear witness to such a scene of transcendence for the span of a lifetime.
But alas, all things, even scenes of such serene purity, must come to a close, just as all glorious pools of crimson liquid shall harden and become scabs once more.