She kept a red journal tainted with sins and painted with truths. Its pages were imprinted with her bear and naked soul. Its sheets contained sincerities and burned with untold passions. She was certain no one would notice, as there was nothing peculiar about this book. She had no fear of it ending in the wrong hands, and she was pleased to own it. Such confidence and fearlessness ended at the sight of prophetic dreams and visions. She stopped. She stopped filling the lines with what she carried in her heart, with what overcrowded her thoughts. Days went on, and on, until she would finally make room to write. By then she would have already bottled up countless emotions, swallowed her sadness, and wept her frustrations. On a Sunday evening she sat there, writing episodes of the tiny little things she called dents. Dents of emptiness. Dents in her heart