Zia was an artist. Her hands ached for the lurid sensation of a paintbrush, and not a day went by where she hadn’t created something.

She had a gruesomely vivid imagination, that never really could control itself…

Zia could never control herself.

She loved pleasure, in all its sensual forms, and grasped tightly to every minute in its hold. Some might say she was obsessed.

She always blamed that on Plato.