You can find her on the stoop, those nights when the blood moon rises. Slow your speed, or you'll miss her. She'll be there, I swear it, clutching her soul like a gypsy. They say her heart is barren, they say nothing good ever fruits there, but I don't believe it. I saw her once, you know? Quite by chance, she glanced up, and I felt the sight of her tears. Like a murder of angels, they swooped me up, all swirl-like, with my feet on the sidewalk. I'd passed her house a thousand times, never seen her till that night. I just needed bread, but I was gifted an impression instead. She's just waiting.