Idony is romanticism in all its splendor. Idony will talk for days about tomorrows yet to come, until all her tomorrows have slipped by into yesterday.



Idony likes falling. Idony will crash through air and watch the rain stay always one inch above her, and she'll tell you it feels like flying and that even though she knows she'll have to hit the ground sometime, she feels invincible.


Idony is false. Idony likes dreaming but don't ask her why; she'll only close her eyes and pretend she's awake. Idony is a box of compassion on the side of the road, and some will stop to look, but never touch, because Idony is frail and far beyond saving.


Idony is blind and deaf. She looks without seeing and listens without hearing, and nobody knows that Idony is not lame, because Idony has never stood on her own two feet. Idony will dip her brush in storm clouds and smoke and she'll paint on her mask a little more each day and refuse to take it off, but that's okay because everyone thinks she looks prettier like that anyway.


Idony will sing about beauty and joy, and everyone will scoff and turn away and Idony will plead for anyone to listen, and they will only shake her off and tell her to be realistic. And Idony will weep for sorrow, but then again, she supposes happiness was never more than a fairy tale to begin with.


Idony is humanity. She is everything and nothing.


Idony is.