There’s an old story goes like this: The Devil, so old and long, so hated and reviled, often chose to forget parts of his life so he could experience things anew. Once upon the Devil’s forgotten memories, he fell in love with a woman from the day she was born. He saw her grown in the future, beautiful with long dark hair that would whiten gracefully in the winter of her life. He made sure her chest would defy gravity and that her figure would always stay inside an invisible bottle. Her father regaled her youth with great poetry and stories. When she grew up, she didn’t care for money, ambition, an artist’s brush, a singer’s voice, or any art but that of the written word. As her beauty grew, The Devil watched her go through the world shunning all manner of men, fortune, and offerings and he truly felt her a kindred spirit. For he also shunned the desires of people far and wide: sicknesses on archaic, scribbled-upon altars. He appeared to her one day in his true form, that of the angel, and he read her the poem she always wanted to hear.
Write that poem.