She liked to write backwards and she liked to start at the end of a book. This implied either impatience or a warped sense of curiosity.
She also liked to write slowly. Each letter was meticoulsy drawn like a work of art, a painting, one made of words dancing across the page in neat lines.
As the words flowed from pen to paper, her mind returned to a musty summer morning. She was at an age, so young, the concept of age and time were foreign to her. No past, the future was only a vaque concept. She lived in the now. Drinkly deeply of the ever present moment. At times it felt as if the future was floating somewhere above her left ear. She would give it a sidewards glance, but it was just out of sight. Except when she was riding in the car.
In the car time and space melded in unusual ways. It felt different, more tangible. In those moments her sidewards glances revealed specters of things yet to come. Perhaps her pen could do the same. Straining she reached into the far corners of her mind.