A nameless character looks up at me from the sketchbook page.
Not even a fully-formed face. But enough of a presence here to feel this is a person made from ink.
Id like to wear this dress – wide stripes cut from a fabric that shines, that pulls back against the wind.
'What's going on with your hair?' I ask.
'It's not my hair,' she replies, and laughs.
'So what is it, then? A hat? Light? Energy?'
'No,' she says, 'it's lines you made with a ballpoint pen.'