She wears peroxide blonde like a halo, and the light plays on her smile and in her eyes.
Her life is lived through a dance, a dizzying frenzy of masks and colours and dreams of the stars themselves.
But behind the masquerade, she's built a fortress. She hides her vulnerability in the obscurities of wit and a fierce attitude. Because, really, she's only as much as you make her.
She's brilliant, she's bright-shining, even though she can't see it herself.
There's something so frail about her, something utterly and eternally finite, in this ever-rotating world and shifting universe.
You don't know what you'd do without her.
You think she's beautiful.