SHE WAS BORN BETWEEN THE LINES and would spend a lifetime in search of the perfect words to explain it. And she viewed the world from far corners many never knew existed, where dreamers dreampt dreams set in technicolor motion.
She lived for the moments in which ideas were born, for the object of her affection and greatest desire could be found scrawled in thoughts and sonnets and stories on the backs of to-do lists, paper napkins and torn journal pages.
Her twisted pleasure came each time she sat down and set her pen to paper; each time she bled out black ink until she ran dry. Still, her truth was this and the only road to walk was the one that lay before her..
For all the world was a story it seemed, and she was born to tell it.