She keeps a running tabulation of her predictions by way of numerating her intuitions: red for right, blue for indeterminate.
She never answers the phone in the nude.
She stuffs her autobiography into the fogginess of her future which she is rewriting in the secret language of twins.
She is dissolving below the knees.
She has several unknown qualities. She feeds them in the dark. They grow haphazardly they way things do.
She takes her tea at half value.
She feels the most alone amongst her family.
She is building an empire of grief.
She is loyal to a fault.
She understands the relationship between disparate objects on an unseen plane.
She values maneuverability.
She likes to have her feet pedicured.
She is unaware that there are those that plot against her.
She loves the scent of the ocean.
She is defined by objects that cannot be seen.
She says the word honeycomb over and over to herself, tho she is unaware.
She is lacking all the attendant emotions.
She would like to be an artist.
She is mostly unafraid.
She has hands that go on forever.
She wants you to know that she has a headache.
She wants you to know that she is listening.
She wants you to know that she believes.