She is the bold Arial, I am the faded Helvetica. While she writes novels, I write a haiku. We both made up of paper and ink; myself dry with etched lines of frustrated nails, her damp with Friday night tears. I was a spoken poem of anarchy, while she was the movement of revolution. I cease not to mind her essential statement, but the flaws she claims so clearly. What is it you see every morning? Bamboo having endured months of ocean abuse, washed up on shore, or the cover of an underrated book with a broken spine?