there was something warm about her, something indescribably human. perhaps it was the way she threw her head back to laugh, an expression of freedom and love and beauty all compounded within incoherent syllables. or perhaps it was the way her eyes flitted across printed pages, the corner of her lips quirking up at certain lines; to an outsider, it seemed like it was some private inside joke between her and god. she was an artist at heart, it seemed. desperate writers penned inadequate words to describe her -- spontaneously funny, impossibly kind -- all true, but insufficient to describe her. that morning, as she sat in the cafe, a soft scone in one hand, an open book in the other, she was both rooted and floating at the same time.