She sits at a table. One young man approaches, face flushed with drink. He is less witty than he thinks, even sober.
"So which is it?" he says, leering. "Is truth beauty or is beauty truth?"
She looks up, considers him, and then, with calm deliberation, breaks his heart. "It is neither," she tells him as he writhes on the ground. "We make our own truth."
"Beauty is power."