She sits there scribbling away in her skin, spinning threads into weaves with intricacy only artists have. Clearly she is an artist of creating worlds because when I see things through her eyes, I see the beauty in the burnt out cigarette butts and discarded ------ wrappers that once would rise feelings of distate in me.

Her heart beats out words and her ink tainted blood flows through her veins off the first draft. When it all becomes too much she wipes away the crumbled balls of discarded ideas and the tears they brought with them.

The bouncing boom box brain waves of hers are too loud to bear. It leads me to wonder how her head doesn't explode into a flurry of papers.