Trixie is a fireball of a girl - a careering clump of fire and gas, whipping flames too hot to touch, spiralling too fast to catch. Trixie is chaos. But Trixie is also brilliance. Writing spoken word with a crumpled rollie hanging from her bitten, peeling lips. Dry curls of tobacco peaking from the end until she lights them with a practiced, calloused thumb and a plastic, neon lighter. Inhaling the dusty remnants of her bag and exhaling wispy smoke into winter air that nips at her fingers.