I can imagine her now; black magic and a typewriter underneath her weary fingertips. She could be eight years old, or a billion years young. What difference does it make? She sorts the world out like some drunk god who can't tell the difference between a hard life and an easy death-and she has no boundaries with astrology:
Capricorn Moon: Saturn's rings. Lunar New Year. Ten moons. Ten years before the apocalypse;
That child will be born ten minutes before Hanukkah. He'll be in a Jewish family, but he'll be dismal with a coin and fall in-love with a Catholic instead.
They'll marry when the world ends.
Lucky numbers: 7, 13, 66, 21, 2012
Lucky Color: Blue.
Or maybe she's the crazy cat lady who whispers broken poetry in her sleep. A young opera singer whose heart was trapped in some kerosene addict's palm forty-five years ago, causing her lungs to search for the fire that burned her limbs before she realized that the sparks in her eyes turned as se