She dances. Her hair flies wild through the air, forcing it to move around and through the golden strands. Her feet drum out a rhythm that's hypnotic; all who come within ear shot stop to listen and to stare. The half heard, half imagined music races and slows, thrills and softens, explodes and dims, flowing along with her energy. Spin, step, back, left, jump, twirl, right...it's exhausting just following her with your eyes. As she writhes, she is the brush for the canvas of this dull, grey world. Colours stream from her fingertips in reds for her passions, purples for her joys, blues for her sorrows, greens for her envies, blacks for her hatreds, oranges for her betrayals, yellows for her hungers. She spreads shades never heard of for her dreams, hopes, fears, loves, desires, smiles, pains, angers, regrets...this is her world. She paints it with her fingers, with her toes, seemingly haphazard as she swirls. But the picture she paints is perfect, even for its flaws. Even for the rips and tears where others have intruded. Even for the cuts where others have deliberately destroyed.

Never. Stop. Dancing.
Laters