She lives on the wind. She guides all ships and calms all seas. She is a map of her own making, both the needle and the compass rose. Her secrets are found in every cave and on every eagle's feather. She is the clandestine vault in a palace, the tomb of all tombs. Her riches are pearled fractals.

She opens portals and escapes dimension. Her brain is magnetic; her presence skews gravity. Her heartbeat preserves the rotation of the spheres. The stars are her eyes and her hands are black holes. Luminous, she glistens silvery above pale, milky clouds. She is cloaked in the deepest black velvet.

She knows a silence no ears have ever felt. She speaks to smoke; her dreams are ether. She is her own fate, her own oracle and her own Zeus. She is the vast and the empty. She is all that was barely there.

––Casey Wilson

[artist's website]