Today I met a lovely lady. Her smile is the full summer moon glowing a gentle, pale white against the dark depths of a cloudless night. Her lips were a sweet carnation. Her eyes were sharp; a discerning pair hidden behind her intelligent glasses, piercing through my soul with a single glance. She wore a flowery dress that danced whenever she moves her graceful figure, swaying in silent rhythm with her smooth, black hair that always lands softly on her shoulder blades.
She was quiet, but more likely just shy. After all, she's a writer. Writers are living books who make copies of snippets of themselves, sharing them with other people. They lie quiet and harmless while they are closed; but once opened, words and ideas unceasingly stream forth like a typewriter in the hands of a frenzied monkey. Not that she looks like a monkey; she's quite the blessed creature: like the moon to the sun, she reflects a portion of the infinite, radiant beauty of God.
I don't know her name, though. I didn't quite hear it when she introduced herself. It happens: those times that my mind suddenly blanks out to appreciate the sublime beauty of the wonder standing - well, sitting - before me. But one thing I do know: she is the loveliest, most interesting book I've seen this summer.
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