Fairyesque illuminations in a swirl of glitter and dripping mascara. Tinkerbelle wings strapped to sunburnt backs. She closes her eyes every night and prays that she shrinks down to 4 inches high, she prays that she'll sprout wings made of dew drops and broken dreams. But every day she wakes up and her heart breaks a little more. Acid stamps take the place of her normally overly vivid imagination. Her poems and stories become the equivalent of a Jim Morrison melody. Too much make up and the smell of nail polish take over thoughts and all rationalities melt away like ice cubes on bare stomachs. Love and hate are toxic mixtures that lead to cuts on arms and hangovers. An obsession with all things that shine and everything overly perfect drive her insane. Sitting in a bare room, her rent controlled tomb, she watches her life slip away. Her light flickers out slowly, like the last minutes of a dying pixie when a child stops believing. Her fairy tale life falls apart into a Shakespearian tragedy ending.