In the world that they lived in, there were many artists. People who could make something out of nothing. Those individuals who could just pick up a random rock on their path, and be able to carve it into something so beautiful it made even the most hardened souls weep.
If Emily had been gifted in any of those disciplines. Then she would have been using them to express herself. If she could have, she would have written a poem about sleep. Stanza after Stanza, just dedicated to the wonders of slumber.
She would put in rhymes, and throw in metaphors and similes. Just using words to string together her thoughts, and bring alive the emotion that she felt whenever she thought of sleep, and how wonderful it was. But unfortunately for her, Emily was not a poet. She could not move people with just her words.
