Each move is strategically planned, the small flick of her wrist or the way she look in to the horizon hoping you will notice the sunlight in her eyes. Love is not a choice, because something that is nonexisant can not be. Beauty is a choice though, as well as infatuation. Safety and caution, that person inside of her that once considered those terms is thrown to the wind, lost to risk and carelessness. Unnoticed for so many years, she is ready to show the world the truth. She will open her head and mnie, allow you to pick her apart. Falling apart is a part of life, and one of the most fascinating. So she will plan each move until you see something in her, find a movement she does that most would think is just an insignicant gesture; when she does a shy smile in to her shoulder as though she were ashamed of her face and you can not understand why, when her wrist flicks to pick up her pencil and you are amazed at how delicately but passionately it moves. You are in awe, her hands are telling a story. Her smile is showing her soul.