As she catches raindrops on the tip of her tongue, the leaves that blow around her are collected by magpies and squirrels that raise each one to the sky as if to show God they are so fortunate to have been touched by her beauty. As she spins in circles like a whirlwind, the dogs and cats from the neighbourhood leap into the air and circle her outstretched arms and upon their faces and in their animal hearts they feel only joy and wonder at the one who shines upon them. As she closes her eyes and smiles at the clouds, the clouds come down and lift her off her feet and as she laughs like a child all the children spread their fingers upon the windowpanes in fascination at the angel who’s dancing outside. Like her, they know of no horrors, only of what it means to believe in magic, and magic is the only thing that keeps a person from growing old and crumbling. She doesn’t crumble, and she doesn’t grow old. In a bubble of soap and alcohol she floats. In a moment of time gently removed from the tapestry of life, she drifts beneath the streetlamps as their light illuminates her face the way daisies glow beneath your chin. They told me when I was kid that if they did, then you liked butter, so it must be true, because there’s nothing more she likes than butter on toast along with her tea and cigarettes upon the doorstep while watching the seasons and people twist and change every morning yet somehow always remaining the same. It could be October, but it could be May. It could be raining, or it could be snowing. It doesn’t really matter. Nothing matters once you leave behind the ties that bind you to former lives and lovers that only ever dragged you down. And who want’s that? Who want’s anything less than sheer poetry and bliss in a moment that couldn’t be anything less? Not I, she cries. Not I.