Phoebe was the background dancer at the biggest show, Phoebe was the twirl of a paint brush on a canvas, leaving behind a cool blue trail. She was pale legs and skirts that don't quite fit, she's warming peach tea in delicate pottery crafted by and elderly relative, she was giving in and the painting that stands quiet and underwhelming in the corner of a gallery waiting to be approached. She was the leaves that litter the path and singing your heart out until your voice is hoarse and you can no longer speak, she's speaking so fast that words collect and jumble together until you can no longer distinguish words. She was made up of Violet skies and violent storms, she was made of obscure thoughts and nervous habits that bugged her at the most inconvenient of times. She was in love with stories, and the words that came with them.