HOW TO KEEP FACE CLEAN. HOW TO CLEAN HONEYCOMB BLINDS
How To Keep Face Clean
- Providing detailed and practical advice
- A how-to or a how to is an informal, often short, description of how to accomplish some specific task. A how-to is usually meant to help non-experts, may leave out details that are only important to experts, and may also be greatly simplified from an overall discussion of the topic.
- (How To’s) Multi-Speed Animations
- Practical advice on a particular subject; that gives advice or instruction on a particular topic
- Remove the innards of (fish or poultry) prior to cooking
- make clean by removing dirt, filth, or unwanted substances from; "Clean the stove!"; "The dentist cleaned my teeth"
- clean and jerk: a weightlift in which the barbell is lifted to shoulder height and then jerked overhead
- Make (something or someone) free of dirt, marks, or mess, esp. by washing, wiping, or brushing
- free from dirt or impurities; or having clean habits; "children with clean shining faces"; "clean white shirts"; "clean dishes"; "a spotlessly clean house"; "cats are clean animals"
- confront: deal with (something unpleasant) head on; "You must confront your problems"; "He faced the terrible consequences of his mistakes"
- the front of the human head from the forehead to the chin and ear to ear; "he washed his face"; "I wish I had seen the look on his face when he got the news"
- confront: oppose, as in hostility or a competition; "You must confront your opponent"; "Jackson faced Smith in the boxing ring"; "The two enemies finally confronted each other"
- Be positioned with the face or front toward (someone or something)
- Have the face or front pointing in a specified direction
- (of a soldier) Turn in a particular direction
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This picture is from a while back when Ara finally faced the twin sister that had been getting to kill her in the Valahari sim. Below is the blog/journal entry:
Arabella had tossed and turned fitfully all night, images of Westenguard's brief invasion of the city and the subsequent inferno which had sprung to life in the slums keeping rest at bay in the darkness of her room. Physical and mental exhaustion should have sufficed, yet Morpheus's sweet embrace remained elusive as she replayed her every move throughout these events in her mind. She was dissatisfied with her performance, particularly since it seemed her own flames had unintentionally played a role in the latter debacle. The humans' wizard must have deflected her attack; there was no other reasonable explanation. With an exasperated sigh, she turned once more, likely for the hundredth time in the past hour. Even in the cavernous depths of the city, where sunlight could never reach, she had grown accustomed to telling the passage of time by listening to the noise and din of her fellow citizens. Quite often she had greeted the shadowy awakening of a new day leaning silently against the walls of a nearly deserted passageway, watching it slowly begin teeming with life as residents rose from slumber and began to move about in their daily routines. Tonight, though, she could tell such a welcome distraction was still a few hours away and the oppressive silence of her surroundings, interrupted every so often by the heavy footfalls of a guard or two going about their rounds, offered no peace to her troubled mind.
Once more, she had been reminded of her tendency to hesitate, the one which had almost cost her too dearly on myriad occasions. This time the words had been spoken aloud by one who was all too familiar with her moments of weakness, though perhaps not so much with those of strength. The speech had echoed many of her own concerns, and that her failures should be so patently on display for others ashamed her. She was determined it should not be so, needed to prove to herself at least that she could follow through, push and expand her limits as far as the fates would allow in order to achieve her full potential and, in doing so, serve her city--her home--to the best of her abilities. To truly do so would mean facing what she feared most, that which tormented her in dreams frequently, most often embodied in a very specific persona: Caterina, her sister. For months now her raven-haired twin had been stalking her as if she were some defenseless prey, invading her thoughts with her constant taunting through the mental link they shared, searching relentlessly for imaginative ways to make her suffer, to isolate her from those she cared for most in order to more easily bring about her demise...and, throughout it all, being quite certain that her sweet, innocent sister would be incapable of rising up against her, even in self-defense. Was it Arabella's fault pyroead births were meant to result in a single daughter and not the fluke of their own? She had done nothing to call the power that could be the birthright of only one of them into herself, had not even been conscious of its existence until a few months ago. This had not been her choice, yet it had defined who she was now and the path she had chosen. She was not about to grant her sister the power she sought, her power, especially not by continuing to hide away in the dark city until Cat devised some scheme to see Arabella dead and take it for herself. No...she had borne enough of her insults and threats without daring to fight back against her own blood...she had hesitated for too long and would do so no more.
With a plan already forming rapidly and somewhat haphazardly in her mind, she rose from the cot and felt her way along the cool walls to the other side of the room, taking up her garments and dressing swiftly. As her feet slipped into the comfortable leather boots, one hand reached to the small sheaths concealed at the ankles, ensuring both daggers were present. The blades had been cleaned and sharpened the day before in preparation for the human city's attack, but she tested them carefully with one finger now anyway. A touch to the belt at her waist confirmed the length of rope and purse were also at hand. She would not need too many weapons for the task at hand; Caterina would not be expecting an attack from her and she did not wish to draw too much attention to herself should her paths cross with anyone she knew. She might have taken her bow and arrows as well, her aim having grown more accurate with constant practice, but what she craved was a much closer encounter. Perhaps to some extent it was the frustrated bloodlust of the earlier scrimmage with the humans pushing her to this particular choice, but in the end she wanted Caterina to know it was her hand that had done the deed, that she was not a weakling, that she would not hesitate.
She made her way through the quiet passages,
Have I said it before? I am learning to see. Yes, I am beginning. It's still going badly. But I intend to make the most of my time.
For example, it never occurred to me before how many faces there are. There are multitudes of people, but there are so many more faces, because each person has several of them. There are people who wear the same face for years; naturally it wears out, gets dirty, splits at the seams, stretches like gloves worn during a long journey. They are thrifty, uncomplicated people; they never change it, never even have it cleaned. It's good enough, they say, and who can convince them of the contrary? Of course, since they have several faces, you might wonder what they do with the other ones. They keep them in storage. Their children wear them. But sometimes it also happens that their dogs go out wearing them. And why not? A face is a face.
Other people change faces incredibly fast, put on one after another, and wear them out. At first, they think they have an unlimited supply; but when they are barely forty years old they come to their last one. There is, to be sure, something tragic about this. They are not accustomed to taking care of faces; their last one is worn through in a week, has holes in it, is in many places as thin as paper, and then, little by little, the lining shows through, the non-face, and they walk around with that on.
But the woman, the woman: she had completely fallen into herself, forward into her hands. It was on the corner of rue Notre-Dame-des-Champs. I began to walk quietly as soon as I saw her. When poor people are thinking, they shouldn't be disturbed. Perhaps their idea will still occur to them.
The street was too empty; its emptiness had gotten bored and pulled my steps out from under my feet and clattered around in them, all over the street, as if they were wooden clogs. The woman sat up, frightened, she pulled out of herself, too quickly, to violently, so that her face was left in her two hands. I could see it lying there: its hollow form. It cost me an indescribable effort to stay with those two hands, not to look at what had been torn out of them. I shuddered to see a face from the inside, but I was much more afraid of that bare flayed head waiting there, faceless.
RIP Steve Ray 19?? - 2005
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