A tattoo of a shadow remains when the light recedes.

Mock the sun, then, and ridicule the clouds. They've always seemed so stupid anyway.

Clouds. The poets can have them. They can have the clouds and the sun. Where are their clouds on a sunny day? And where's their sun on this overcast morning?

That's my shadow. I always have it. I don't need the weather -- just the steady hand of a artist.

Tattooed, herself.