Their fingers hold the gold within themselves, gold spilling out into bounds of silver, nonexistent for the most part into the realm of lese majesty; there are cerulean blues and majestic golds that float around the room, flying into mists of colors that fade away as fast as they had originally appeared. Blair Waldorf descends down the staircase, a glass of wine in one hand, eager in conversation (small talk, of course) with another lady of the night, thoughts of balconies forgotten into slumbers of sleep, ridden of peas and the sort.
author's note: a series of vignettes; blair-centric.