In a way,
her strangeness,
her naiveté,
her craving for the other half of her equation
was the consequence of an idle imagination
Had she paints, or clay,
or knew the discipline of the dance,
or strings,
had she anything to engage her tremendous curiosity
and her gift for metaphor,
she might have exchanged the restlessness
and preoccupation with whim
for an activity that provided her with all she yearned for
And like an artist with no art form,
she became dangerous.
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