Somewhere deep inside of her is poetry; she dreams secretly of sunshine and tea with too much cream or no cream at all, just the scent-smell-feel of herbs, of crystal prisms in the windows that fling rainbows across the room and windchimes whose sound hangs in the air like a promise... when no one else is looking, she weaves herself into a faerietale of her own weaving, where love isn't about looks or genders or convenience or habit, where there's still such a thing as purity without naivete. Her head is full of crystal cobwebs spun from the tattered remnants of dreams shoved aside by reality but not quite forgotten, and in their softly gleaming strands she still feels a sense of her destiny, something calling her to more than she is yet... there is something that pulls her ever onward. She cannot help but create; it is a part of her endless journey that she must leave the world more beautiful than before, or at least with a different sort of beauty than before. The mysteries of the multiverse call her not so much to try to solve them as to seek to experience them... and wonder. Wonder, as far as she can tell, is the key to happiness.