She comes inside, and carries the emotion of curious logic, in literary poetics, only bats go to killers for safety.
She's conjured an entire array of options, steady choices.
She has a cute way of being smart, edgy, able to regain the surface at a moment's notice--a biobot faster than most. (It seems she has picked up on the solitude of The Old West with its lone wolf gunslingers itching to prove something to the few available onlookers able to listen in desert space).
Her poetics, her attention to detail, her fate-in-the-wind mind are somehow jammed onto a small screen.
It's her poetics again, you do well to keep so much when so many want it. Really?