Opening her eyes as wide as they’ll go, the moon gently dissolves from her mind like a snowflake melting in an open palm. Gazing intently at the spot where her brush is pointing, she stalks the canvas never losing sight of the area where she’s to make her first mark. Will it be a gentle dab to set her on her way or a violent attack? Violence is always preferable in the first throes of creativity, for it mirrors the violence found in the sexual act. Without it, every painting, song and book worth its salt would be as flat and as tasteless as a kiss shared between two empty mouths. Selecting a reel of sexual liaisons to play in the back of her mind to keep herself on edge, she feels her temperature rising as the blood pumping through her body pumps faster and faster. Biting down on her lower lip, she breaks the skin. Sure enough, blood trickles down her chin onto the front of her favourite dress. Within seconds, it seeps through to the flesh of her breasts, but she never loses her concentration. Not even slightly. The bloodshed, although not planned, isn’t accidental, for at every step of the way, she denies the possibility of such accidents. Each action, no matter how obscure, or seemingly detrimental to her journey, is used in her favour, for by embracing a loss of control, she controls even the unknown.