Admiring the painting she stood. Each stroke of brush craving to expose the hidden secrets to the radiant soul, which was slowly pulling out strands of life, steadily turning into burning grief. She touched the painting. Pain. "Aaaah'' pulling back her hand she wondered why it looked fine? "No burns? Strange". The colourful paints seemed dry but it was wet maybe first with blood then with tears... she walked away without realising the strands she pulled out building up inside, rooted well ready to sprout.
Time passed... sucking out strands slowly turned out to be the whole soul... clinging to her, afraid to fall, slowly pulling her down. Music, drama, poetry... she was pregnant with the souls of art. The fertile crescent was not real.. but oh so real.
Time passed, it was a stormy night. Her heart made its move for the last time. She was an art lover.