Alma sat at a table near the window, the light catching the heavy emerald brooch at her throat. It was said that she didn't just inspire art; she consumed it. She was the Sphinx of the Secession. To love her was to be destroyed, but to be destroyed by her was to achieve a terrible form of immortality.
She vanished into the gray Vienna street, leaving the café feeling emptier, smaller, and infinitely quieter. The writer dipped his pen in ink and wrote a single line: fur alma by miklos steinberg high quality