In between her thoughts and ideas there were words, always words. Never did they drop properly from the tongue, disjointed and self-conscious as they would emerge. But by pen...by pen the words could dance, sing, inspire, emote, play, die, and be reborn. By pen, why, they came alive. By writing, she came alive. And she knew it wasn’t reality but reality-adjacent. Because reality hardly ever approaches one’s own idea of perfection and sometimes, perhaps even oftentimes, her words could. And in that truth lay the tragedy that when she ceased to write, she ceased to live. She ceased, even, to seem alive. This being the case, why would she ever stop writing? I’m certain she could never tell you, and ceasing to write, how could we ever know? If only someone close to her knew her story, and was willing to share it...