bay {capitol} fin cb

There was no claim to fame for you. No riches to rain from the dead, no words to have a fortune slung onto you-- just long days sat alone in a room, looking at the world through a thin window. Separated from them but still close enough to intrude the daily business of the hundreds of extravagant people that walk on by. You weren't raised with the mindset of others; you were taught that hard work paid off.

And to not marry young to an old man sitting on bars of gold. Like someone you know.

And through your short life, you get to see the world from a new point of view when you actually open your eyes. Through eyes washed blue: you're given the ability to see it all. Misfortune and love and trust and broken legs and everything inbetween the lines people back away from. Writing articles for a gossip magazine exposed you to the things which usually causes eyes to roll, except in your case, you've learned to make people read.

People never pin the words to the face, because there's no face to pin them to. You sit in your office on the 14th floor on the street just past that fountain which is larger than life -- they don't know you write. Locks of brown and a plump face, eyes eager to uncover the latest and juiciest stories of them all. Tall enough to not need a man to get the pickles down from the cupboard, but short enough to wear 5 inch heels and get away with it.

Those heels are pink, of course, and know how to murder you after a night out.

But you take it on the chin: life's too short to play small.