She stretches lithely on her bed as he watches on, nervous fingers twitching in doubt. She allows him enough leeway to witness from afar, but that's about it. She watches him squirm in his chair, as cigarette smoke bellows out of her mouth in flowery prose. She is your average psychotic, secret-keeping artist. Enough laughter to close in a cookie jar and enough tears to feed a town. Later she squints in the mirror. Her boobs beg to pop out of her bra but her face remains slim and fresh. She likes to walk around in her underwear. It makes her feel skimpy and free, and no one's really watching anyway. Her eyes are surrounded by premature wrinkles that will tell magnificent tales later on in life, and her hair plays it cool in the winter. Bold purple letters cover some parts of the walls, spelling out important things because purple is her favorite color.
'Gnarly Barley', she says out loud and giggles.
The music changes, the mood shifts, she's running out of dull colors to describe misery with.