She got her pencil back.
Yes, she did...
Pretend quite glamorously that everything she would write, she did feel.
These were her deep thoughts - script dictated by the lonesome director that was
her heart or her brain (she did not know how to tell them apart).
And everything else she knew not how to... or did, but to correspondent words conduct the most excruciating feeling...
she would drink them like watery soup.
Save them.
For a brighter day.
While waiting, her rational prayer did wish for black to be black, but grey was, indeed, the last colour available...