Nebulous, cloudy, boundaries undefined, she hides herself, exposing only what is necessary for the moment.  Words drip from her pen, ink staining the paper with flexible meaning, the reader unable to decipher the woman behind the prose.  Fact, fiction, fantasy?  Interpretation is open, setting real but generic, emotions powerful but adaptable, thoughts seen but unknown.  Meaning is crystal clear to one, different but just as defined to another, neither divining the true intention of her writing.

She leads the reader to their own conclusion, observing, testing, her words guiding with the softest of touches, caressing mind, manipulating feeling, giving what is needed, taking nothing.  Nothing but control.

Comfort and a sense of wonder is all that is left when her words end, when her presence is no more.  The reader knows they know her, knows they can help her, knows what she needs.  They know nothing, less than nothing.  They know what she wants them to know.