She opens a little book with a soft baroque pattern containing three months of her life. The words are startlingly familiar, curling, strange and consuming. She cannot close the book. Nor will she unlock the bedroom door.

From darkness she was born, and from darkness she will rise. She is a flame, scorching in her power, a divine sorceress of immense internal beauty. But when she is snuffed, she is irretrievable, falling senselessly back down into the tunnel from which she first emerged. In the dark water of tears and lily pads she wades, bleeding with the waning of the moon. Waking life, will she seize a moment through a piercing fear of the unknown? She reaches out towards shooting firefly, through poison lips, winding thickets, and a cauldron boiling in her belly.

She was a curious sort of girl; melancholy, yet exuding an ever changing glow of passion through her eyes. She thought of darkness as her companion, the gateway to her dreams to and fragments of joy. The darkness burdened her, but it also gave her room to laugh at the absurdity and wonder present in her life.
Beneath the glow of the cinema screen, emotions brim piping and bittersweet. My blood runs raw as the rituals of a French peasant woman’s life unfold before me, both mundane and beautiful. Sweet rhythmic light from myriad of candles on a virgin shrine, madness to paint, to believe the angels have called upon you through the weeping of violins. Her body ceases to exist and her soul was enveloped into a panorama of color. I wish I could hand you a platter golden and gleaming with the soul striking effect of woods thick with creaking, bubbling with streams. Heart swells. Curly haired woman’s fingers on piano keys, shadowed eyes over the pieces of her soul shouting out through shady glades and innermost confessions of eternal devotion