With breakable silence that hummed incessantly in her brain, she understood that the time was upon her; thoughts like wildfire along the Tanzanian coast, the blood boiling symptoms became obsolete at the expense of her pain. Too little would not hold true when the many moons had set; but as so many stand alone psychics had told her in the back of gypsy caravan-filled daydreams "All that really matters is the now." Crystal balls and crystal meth could show her lots of illusions of the light and maybe, someday, she could count the nightlights easier than her track marks. But until then, she held herself on a Popsicle stick stained with watermelon juice and only made a mess on the inside. She held her head like a hero on the edge of the Olympian mountain and stood like the marbleized erection of a Greek looking glass God, Aphrodite or Persephone, waiting to wallow in the clouds instead of beneath them. She dreamed of the tops of lightning bolts and seeing the sunshine from above. Maybe someone up there knew she was extraordinary. She was drinking the drips of ambrosia that fell with vigor as she herself tried to figure it out.