no, you can't think. you can't stop. you cant consider, compare, even contemplate what the result may be. Theresa twists slowly , her body curving, she won't stand still, and the pencil breathlessly chases her form, since every fleeting moment is too beautiful to miss - the light  gliding off her ribs, the soft curve of her breasts, her gentle, elegant face so deeply still and sombre. you don't want to miss this, you don't want the moment to slip away. it does.
all i have left is the black, shaking graphite line the pencil tip trailed behind as it rushed to it's inevitable failure. it's more a memento of a lost moment than the correct description of it.