She lived with a fever.
In her life's image she stood topless in the desert sun's orange-yellow beastly passion, strands of beads dangling down her spine and around her waist and ankles and lobes to nipples, immersed in dense lust for creativity, power, strength, and love.
Her brilliance manifested itself in the delusion of her life.
She spoke most languages, and had read most books. She had had most lovers, but they bored her. So in consequence to the waterfalls of flames that streaked through her fingertips and toes, she poured herself into wild art and expedition.