You drive through a village and pass a girl of the most impossible beauty, striking as a bullet hitting home.
The word you think of is “ethereal”, and immediately you know it won’t do, too educated a word and too imprecise. As your bus passes her, you know in the nature of village belles, this flower too will fall and wilt quickly, under the pressures of feminity in a world with even less oppurtunities for non-urban girls. You think how much a loss it is the odds are zero you will ever meet her in your circles, to woo, chase her, sleep with her maybe and contribute your quota to her degeneration.
Suddenly you are aware of a new meaning of injustice, still vague but immensely disturbing. And while you don’t know how come this sadness creeps so confidently in your heart, you feel as well that sadness is the right emotion, as appropriate as black to a funeral. There IS something funereal about her beauty.
You pass on with your dubious goods and your sadness without a name.