Holding her breath as if she were sinking to the bottom of the ocean, time grinds to a halt. In the moments before the paint from her brush hits the canvas, it seems to stretch forever—both the canvas and time itself. Blinking her eyes, she sees a plethora of moments lifted from her life. From life-changing days of romance and rebellion to sunless afternoons spent doing nothing at all other than smoking her cigarettes wishing for an early death. Most leave her feeling cold and old—even the good ones—yet still they occupy a place in her heart, even if she doesn’t know for what reason. Captivated by what she sees, she’s aware not only of her own history but the history of all things; from the ghosts of Victorian London that eternally suffocate in historic squalor to the death of the dinosaurs as they watched the skies flame with fire before their demise became a multimillion-year secret. From the Titanic sinking on its maiden voyage to the day the planetesimal that struck Earth created the formation of the Moon—it’s all with her. It’s all in her; bubbling through her veins like fizzy lemonade. She’s at one with all things—just like the Zodiac Killer claimed in one of his letters. And just like the Zodiac, she hides her truth in cyphers. Her cyphers being her paintings. By hand and by brush; by tongue and by toe. Even her nipples, if need be. Whatever it takes to make the paint move the way she wants it to, it gets done. It has to get done. If it doesn’t, her head will pop like a burst balloon.