The contributor’s then-boyfriend jotted this in her sketch book. She tells us the “she” referred to is not her:

She was the way I always remembered. A kind of lily apon the water. To fool you into thinking she floated free. But her stem was deep rooted, and it would take alot to pull her free. I hate when people read my writing. It isn’t meant for thier interpretation. But people can’t help but tell you thier opinion. That’s why I log my journal internaly. Where dose it all go?