The Madame was conceived, but never born. She wrote on the dark walls of some womb for centuries, words dripping from the quiet of her solitude. One day she heard something from the outside: "We shall be fat, gentlemen, but never happy." A terrible violence swelled from her pen, she pierced these words through the walls, a reverse dissection, blood in her eyes, the sound of gunshots, a woman screaming and she took off across the plains. When she laid her lovers down in the fields, her hair would swirl about their faces, a fiery mahogany frame for no picture she might afford to see. She remembers, "It's a beautiful accent you have, ma vie en rouge, but where is it from?" She swore her mouth would never make that shape again. The surgery was a success. With all of their smallest things in her pockets, she would flee in the night. Millions amassed in a cluster of rock, metal and paper. Many an ocean liner, thumbs from pockets to the air, and she is here, doing her good work in worship of the two most vital traditions in this world. Do not ask of her origin. Do not question this work. Everything you need know of this woman, she can see, slathered all over your face in brilliant, black ink.