If I were fortunate enough to be Katie's realtor, I'd know exactly what to do: find a home fit for the most beautiful poet in the known universe.
And although I am a very good realtor, mad panic would ensue. Because consider how many poets you know (probably one or two if you're lucky) and then consider how they live (probably messily, as it's very hard to keep track of laundry and dirty dishes when you're stringing together gorgeous words). But Katie is not your average poet. Just look at her.
I think I would know what she would love.
Her space should make her smile, with swings, mini motorbikes, and a skylight big enough to lighten any darkness. It should also be grand in scale because sometimes poets like their own space. Perhaps their mates might, too.
I would also think it important to highlight the private alleyway outside. Because poets like to pace, and this could be convenient.
There would be a master bath that would remind her that sometimes a black and white world is beautiful, even though she most often prefers to live in the silvery gray sections.
She would need a nook in which to hide.
Given a poet's propensity for swooning over beauty, she may also require a chaise or two. Preferably near every mirror or reflective surface. Remember, she looks like this.
To keep her looking like that, she would love a room well-stocked with toys of one of her other trades.
And even though she would protest and turn a brilliant shade of red, I'll insist on a screening room. Because someday soon, she'll need it.
I know all about these things; I live in L.A., remember?
