She is going to kill me, but I love her. I love what she creates in sleepy moments, words and analogies whispered to a matchstick horizon, though she tries to make similes of my hair as embers and claims that is where the beauty lies. I love the art she makes and hates - there's this one titled "inspiration" that I helped her splatter paint on. It featured a lightbulb she smashed with a hammer, and some wire going up and about and crazy through different drops of paint, all placed on a canvas. Someone offered her money for it, she won a competition with it, and she said "no, it's trash" but I snagged it so she wouldn't throw it away. I love t