She sits in her room folding paper – a tiny figure, almost like a stick insect, but imbued with the co-ordination of a scientist. You watch her, holding your breath, afraid that she might shatter should you breathe too loudly. You know she is made of far stronger stuff, that Wolverine’s claws couldn’t tear her down, but still you watch with bated breath. She keeps folding.
She gets up after what might be minutes, or might be hours – you’re never too sure around her. In her hand there rests gingerly a tiny origami creature. She places it in her special place where she keeps all her creations – her origami, her little handmade notebooks and boxes that are bigger on the inside, and her journals painted with all the songs in her heart and the colours in her soul. She lets out a deep breath, a satisfied breath, and in that moment, you see it. Of all the pieces in that room, she is by far the most divine. She, with her tousled black hair and her too-big t-shirt, is art.