She writes down the dreams of weary travelers, war-torn lovers, and sleeping babes on cue cards which she shoves into old romance novels on the shelves of used book stores. She wears hats that are too big and scarves draped low of many colours, to shade her unseeing eyes from an ignorant world. Her lips are chewed raw and bleed to scabs from worried habits of youth. Her name is a compilation of scratches across old records that played in times of love and birth - but now are forgotten as dust. Once, a loved jewelery box ballerina, she still wears the shoes with the fine, expensive lace that run up to her thighs. But now are stained dark crimson and soiled from long marches through trenches ankle-deep with blood. Meticulously spilt by long-ago enemies and frustrated lovers.