Imagine, if you will, a woman who holds a small box in her hand.
Inside the box is an oval shaped, beautiful container with an inscription of a famous, expensive brand name, gold against the pristine white.
She sniffs the container, enjoying the faint scent of the yet to be opened oval, knowing an expensive item such as this would never be hers except by gift.
Simple, yet elegant, she looks forward to using the new bath powder after her shower.
Removing the lid, she slits the clear plastic, replacing it with a screen. Then she puts the puff back on and gently shakes the box.
BAM! An explosion! Lots of powder everywhere, the stuff raining down like sifted snow. She turns her head to keep from breathing it into her lungs, and closes her eyes.
Imagine her surprise, when upon opening her eyes, she is surrounded by fairy dust instead of bath powder.
Miniscule, sparkling particles fill the air, landing on every surfurce in a ten mile range. The sun, shining through the window, highlights their brilliance, as they float in the air like electrified dust motes.
They permeate every crevice in the room. The grout between the floor tiles. The indention of the sink drain. The molding. The lightbulbs.
Her skin. Every inch of her skin.
Not to mention her hair.
And it won't wash off.
The next time you see me, you won't have a hard time finding me.
You'll see the sparkle a mile off.
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