With a cigarette that breathes to the rythm of air stuck between her goldfingers of bone she leans back in the armchair. She wears her pants like a prison and the way she stares pierces your forehead. Accompanied by a waving gesture of the left hand, still clutching the cigarette, she says: 'A poem u can't dance to, ain't worth readin'. You wouldn't be too sure if she knew what she was talking about, if her eyes didn't pierce your every doubt.