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I love her. She illuminates everyday life with her strange acidic light. She holds the life of my house in her cold hands. Every evening, from April to September, she opens the windows and beckons the wild greenery of the garden inside. The plants creep to my feet, playing like extensions of her hands, the same cold extensions. And in winter she is sad. Only the glowing Christmas tree outside the window pleases her on New Year's holidays. They look at each other for a long time, flashing lights through the glass. They are up to something.