She has become magnificently
adept. She is, you see, the supremely
polished, accomplished confidante of
many muses. When she assigns
herself a task, perfection results. She
moves quietly in sunlight city streets,
and solemnly through nighttime forests.
Her talents? Manifold and superbly
unsurpassable. She is the Jill of
all arts, unlike Jack mistress of all.
She speaks in tongues unfamiliar,
conferring and communing with
the animals who approach her
confidently for haven and for love.
Her peers regard her grace and
beauty through slit-green eyes of
envy. Friends she has none. Men
lust after her unapproachable
chastity, wish her the ill of their
frustrations. This odd creature, is
she your daughter, or a feverish
figment of my wayward imagination?
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