And when she's bad, she's really bad. She pushes every limit and the night doesn't end till the sun rises. She rolls around all weekend, running from city to city, one apartment to the next where she plays dress up and smokes while hanging out the windowsill. As her head hangs in the air, she thinks about everything. For some reason, it all makes sense right there, in that moment. Where the moon is hanging upside down and the sky is so dark you would swear it was purple. Nothing will escape her eyes because they are as wide as the moon and as blue as her soul. A lace lavender top and a pair of boots, fashion is whatever is thrown together right then and there; style is only natural when it's not thought about. What you wore when the sun rose, is not what you're wearing when the moon's hanging upside down outside your apartment. The world smells like lavender and the zebra candles burn all the way through the WICCA tray. The Eiffel Tower is going to fall and you could care less.