New York, December 21, 1954

She ran her fingers through her raven, frost covered curtain of hair. She opened her cerulean blue eyes that mirrored a wild, adventurous soul. She was the type of girl that stole every beautiful moment that she could find. The type of girl who would stay in the car just to finish the song. One that would stare into the night sky and have conversations with the moon when her thoughts turned against her. The type of girl that was quiet and alone, but so desperately wanted an adventure, a hand to hold on to. She was the type of girl who cried over every sunset and every sunrise, for the colors dancing through the sky made her heart long for something she couldn’t quite grasp. Maybe she longed for it to feel like something other than an illusion, or maybe she just wished it wouldn’t go away so quickly. Where did the sun always have to rush off to? What was so important that it just couldn’t bare another minute in the sky? She was a girl consumed with questions. She was a girl who took a photograph of everything she saw, because she knew she might never see that beauty again. She knew she didn’t hold the future in her hands. She was the kind of girl who belonged in the wild, oh how she loved it there. The cascading waterfalls, the bellowing treetops, the frivolous clouds, the whispering winds, the northern lights that danced along to the most beautiful songs. The wild was her home, and oh how she longed to be there.