Rosea plays a bohemian plainsong for the cosmonauts among us, while her fuzzy apple hips spit glitter, spin strobes: pink shades of pantyline flicker; lip-licked neon hues scrape strings in B sharp, a gloomy clue.
Can you see the rut? Can you dig your fingers into the flesh?
She dips a toothpick in ink, running prick over paper, simply to prove herself wrong.