"what do you want to do when you grow older?"
"create."
that's all she wanted to do.
the words were always in her mouth, a jumbled mess of beauty and poetry she was always trying to get out.
they told her it would be hard to paint your future using words, but all she could fantasize about was a life saturated in letters.
so she created.
she poured her bones and her blood and her every breath into her words, desperately coaxing them to life.
she did all she could so that her creations were worshipped, adore, glorified.
because in the end, she had all the words.
all she had to do was speak them in the right order.
