Hera in Wonderland

I have marched through these sands since Her hourglass began to tremble. This is no wasteland, but a perfected encephalon, mighty and vast. Everything works as it should; every grain of time, every sun-bleached carcass that constitutes as a thought forgotten. This land of the South is not where emotion or ideas go to perish, but a place where they are made to change and be everlasting in Her glimmering world. This is reality; truth.

The Baroness had never been a static creature, nor a consummate being. She had always been there, however, letting her bare feet be caressed by sands so scorching hot that other shades or Guardians might have melted upon trespassing. Her form shifts and contorts at a near-constant. Her hair is never as long or as curly as it was the moment prior, or turning around to pour ringlets over her statuesque figure, but so often bound in desert wraps and shrouds of thin linen.

(( To go with this song. ))