Language was her ecstasy; the sharp edges of her addiction caused her lips to bleed.
Her hands were tattooed with the faded shadows of sonnets, and her eyes were passages of the classics.
Epics were her soul, and poetry allowed her heart to beat; the rhymes were her very pulse.
Her hunger for literature meant that she inhaled texts in a frenzy, almost choking on the decadence of monologues, and regurgitating volumes in order to feast on their beauty a second time.
She desired Latin the most; the sumptuous elegance of its luxury; fragrant and flamboyant, yet especially awkward to digest.