Every act is an act of self definition.
And this woman, she rises from even the ashes of the phoenix.
She presses down on the cinders of who she was, firmer and stronger still.
She presses down and hypnotises the diamonds, blowing the rest of those old selves away as easily as if they were dust.
They are dust.
There is no body left.
Nobody mourns for dust.
It is the dust that, when settled, and tended and turned with green, patient alchemist thumbs, becomes the soil from which abundant harvests come.
Jewels, and green, patient alchemist thumbs.