She does not ask for much; a piece of paper, a few markers, time, and a mind at peace. Her patience is maddening. Dot by dot, fantasies form, sprung from her forehead fully grown and armed with the colors she imagines. Her gray eyes clouded with concentration, for every jab of her hand must strike true, a felt-tip Seurat. Her life a study in pointillism, too; each day filling in an outline, dark and light commingled, colored by those who come and go, the users and losers, the bruisers and the healers. Self-portraits abound; the smiling face and glowing eyes she will show the world painted over the pain she has known from loss of blood and faithless friends.
A word to the wise: Though her unicorns and pegasi are strikingly beautiful,