Within is the laundry list of a poor unfortunate soul, a hungry flirtatious sweet tooth. She is Icarus without Apollo. Reborn from ashes hoping to turn the residual melancholy into a spectacle. She writes of heartache and loneliness, joy, and comfort, how art shapes her world. She writes with a burning, writhing need to understand her humanity. She writes about everyone she's ever met, and the people she never will. Within is a love letter to herself, and to all the ones who can't use their words. Within is a promise to keep loving all the beautiful, disgusting, amazing, horrendous parts of herself. She writes alone in the a.m, hoping her words scream loud enough before her coffee goes cold.
