She was always easy to read.  I guess you could say she was like a book — a book that incinerates the eyes; the mind; the heart.  Her smile of fire was more than I ever bargained for.  Her script was written on parchment, a flammable memoir of the life she once endured.  It was written with a radiograph pen with a refillable reservoir — no matter when it went empty, she would fill it with something new; something over-the-top; something that satisfied her, only her.  She would spill Spring onto scrolls, Fall onto index cards, Winter onto moleskin.  Still, though, she burned like Summer.  Like I said, she was easy to read.  She was a book; a book of matches.

good indie,
a run under the sun

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