She waltzes with a man, slowly turning as the room spins around them, a blur. It seems full, yet it is empty at the same time. A hubbub surrounds them, but a hubbub of shades. Husks of humans. Crimson walls illuminated by unseen lights. Her face is smooth. A black masquerade mask covers half, a stark contrast to her pale skin. Pale yet full, not like the fading color of an old shirt, but having more in common with the tinge of pink upon a white rose. she is smiling up at a man, he holds her, and looks down from a head above. They circle and spin, as she holds the handle of a razor thin knife, Perhaps it is an ice pick, that juts out from his torso. His mouth is raised in a smile beneath his own black mask, a match for his suit, as life drains out of his ribcage. They dance on, happily ignorant.
The room is heavy with the foreshadow of melancholy.