Beaming vehemently, she pirouettes across an intangible surface, her limbs flowing loosely amongst a bouqet of silks ranging from various shades of red, to orange, to a radiant yellow. She sweeps the outskirts of the shadowed perimeter created by her audience. The audience that has become a sea of mundane shadows, or so it seems, and whose members lean eagerly forward - urging to recoil shyly each time she floats near again. She smirks with triumph as she twirls past with a flourish - not at her own inadvertent tendency of engaging passerby with her words, but rather, if only for a moment, at the happiness of igniting the members in the crowd with the spark of newborn intuition and hope they didn’t feel prior. Moving unchoreographed, passively powerful, she chases every dark moment of fear and despair away with her natural warmth and humour. She escapes the claws and fangs of the spiteful, effortlessly fleeting through every single nook and cranny overcome with shadows. Gracing them with elaborate motion, genuine stories wonderfully laced with: Words. Movement. Imagery. Charismatic oratory.

One familiar face in the crowd gleams the brightest in her light. Watching her, the casual indifference his heart would wield to temperature faded slowly — the ever-present frostbite that had immobilized him. She casts a warm silhouette across his reddened cheeks. He finds it quite hard to determine whether or not he should watch her warily.

But he is captivated nonetheless. Perhaps with appreciation, and most surely with a slight frustration pestering the forefront of his thoughts.

She spots him, and is overcome with a burning curiosity.

Oh, though how she rips through his wicked world. Illumination. Luminesence. And intertwined, he has become her wick.