To prove her existence, she writes.

Her words are strong and pure. They glow of passion, yet they rest in realisation.

She is everywhere, but nowhere to be found.

You would call her sheer, but through her you can not see.

She is a collector of scars, they are her evidence of life.

She is never grounded.

She wants to drift through the blackest ocean, be the smallest grain of sand.

She wears her emotions, they itch and burn.

If she keeps her pace, she feels less.

The wind clears the street.

Beauty is her sight.

With her eyes shut, she floats.