When I walked into her bedroom, her walls were soaked with red paint. The scent was strong and pleasantly toxic. She sat, cross-legged, smiling, her mind carefully toying with some new idea. What do you know about the Kabbalah, she asked. I dont know anything, I said. Jewish mysticism, ancient scriptures. And so she returns to her inward gaze. It was always like this. She seemed always to be in the midst of unraveling life, knowing in her own mind, that the world as we saw it was a mere mask, an adornment. She loved to explore these depths, the sometimes grotesque faces of this world that may have best been left unrevealed.

I once remarked that she reminded me of an Egyptian Princess, like a dark Cleopatra. I'll admit that I could have imagined her from an old black and white movie, emerging fully-formed, with those black-painted eyes.