she. she talks in undefined pronouns. often in greens and purples. she hides in shadows: she’s clouds and velvet. and there is a pain; there is a pain that drags her sensory self as any wind would drag any of the worlds she insists in claiming hers. and there is a void, she was once told. there is this void she insistently carries with two full hands- and an empty stomach. she feels in undefined verbs. often in grays and matte blacks. and she holds her withins, rotten, senseless, grangrenous and she presents them on porcelain bowls, shamelessly. there is no hiding, there is no more hiding. she got raised by an invisible hand, she argues. and in a random frame of a colorless flash, only one possibility remains: to fly away- in greens and purples. perhaps in matte blacks, the light allowing.