They were never constant. It was a struggle to keep them as they were. The chatoyant eyes, they harboured a range of colours I could never recognize together. 
The chatoyancy made the eyes look like miracle ones. It made people believe in miracles when they chose not to. 

The change in shades. The luster,  was simply magnificent. And it was a trait in anger, how the colour would be substituted by complete pitch black. It was an art of beauty. Oh so complex!

Is it often a coinsidence how the complex and the most complicated things tend to be the most beautiful ones of all? Or is that a law of nature itself?


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