Lake Bismuth swimming in a fish bowl

A self—Hira held in her snort. The nose, the eyes, he was saying. But did he really have a single clue of what he was making? Hira looked over the strange lumps and bumps he was pointing to, not at all convinced that he truly thought that this was an expression of self. Her dances were an expression of self. This was mud. His know-it-all tone sounded, to Hira, like nails on a chalkboard.

No, I think the colour is right. She looked from the mound to the wolf. Both were a similar shade of orange-brown. The first, made purely of the material. And the second, seemingly decorated in it. Still handsome? Hira's dubious expression said otherwise. Poetic... She trailed off, brows raised so far up her head that they may just fly off. Not quite.

She'd slink off the rocky path, moving like a feline as she came closer to truly nitpick the poorly done sculpture. She looked from the stranger to his work of art. The nose should be longer, she said. And the eyes are too far apart. She wasn't one for sculpting, no, but her sister had been an artist. Frequently coming to Hira for critiques, she had learnt how to speak artistry.

The anatomy is janky and the torso is too short. The woman sat herself down. Smile sly, wide, like the cheshire cat. Eyes squinted, almost glowing when opposed to the black around her face.

Her voice was sing-songy when she said next: Tryyy ah-gainn!
She, too, had a screw loose. They were similar in that manner.