Larcy Indigo. She has long black hair down to her waist, it sways like a graceful dancer in the soft autumn breeze. Her skin is dark, tan, but not that Cheeto dust look you get from a machine. She spends all her time outside, collecting rocks and planting cheery little flowers in her small garden. The way she talks, it’s compelling. You have a craving to here her say more, and nothing in your immediate state of consciousness can explain why. The way the words roll off her tongue are gentle, a small stroke across your cheek, rather than people like political parties, sentences bursting up their throats like dynamite, then coming out harshly like a stinging slap to the face. She has the power to make you feel. If she cries, you cry. If she laughs, you laugh. If she gets up and dances, you have the sudden impulse to do so too. That girl, Larcy Indigo.