Ink flows from my fingers, thick, beautiful, and emerald green, coiling around my wrists running down my elbows up my arms around my breasts down my stomach through my hair. The ink stains me. This smoky, forest blood. This power. It pumps through my veins and dances on my skin, powders me dark. Dark and beautiful. And I stand on the top of a mountain, the sea endless blue marble, the clouds wisps of cotton, lying on the floor. The valley below me is yellow grass and delicious pink flowers and licorice twisted trees. If I fell, I would fall. For I am human after all. But I am also dark, dark and beautiful. I will not fall because I will not allow myself to fall. The wind will brush me and caress me and whisper sweet nothings in my ear, but it will not lure me over the edge because I will never allow it to lure me over the edge. A person more golden than I could never have made this climb, and a person less beautiful could not stand here, on the top of an eternal, spinning world, so fast the colors blur, without falling. But I am stained black jade, and I am beautiful, and I did both. And I will do both, for the rest of my life.