She is a deity, queen of all and temptress of nothing. She is as hollow as a sere pine tree, rooted in her traditionalism and stultified by the careless cataclysms induced by an unfaithful, obsolete husband. She watches warily as her peacocks of vanity mimic her now deceased grandeur in a moving dance of shiny feathers. She coaxes her heart, which once burned bright with internalized rage, into a cold fractured stone of severe heartbreak. Her youth is withered and her sorrow holds her in a chokehold, as she is ravaged by a black hurricane of indifference.
But beware, because underneath the arid depression she wears like a cracked mask is her true self: a brilliant quasar, made up of everything she ever tucked away. Her thin voice calls out into the misty mess of humanity. Her ravenous hunger for truth is bursting through her galactic force of will, which she forged in the dying embers of her ancient heart. Don’t let her childish stubbornness fool you: her rage thrives at the center of her ‘hollow’ existence, more destructive than any weak myths that swirl around the obstinate idea of her. She will do anything – and everything – to achieve her own happy ending… even if it means ripping herself apart in the process.