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| VITAL STATISTICS Full Name: Gwynn Theresa Hope Age: Early to mid 20s Race: Caucasian Height: 5' 5" Eyes: Hazel Hair: Usually dyed a blue/black mix Birthplace: Michigan Relatives: Mother, father, and brother; all still reside in Michigan Schooling: Graduate of Lamont School of Music Police Record: None Fame: Worldwide reknown as industrial/goth musician Hobbies: Music and poetry Vices: See above. In contrast to the musician stereotype, Gwynn has never been observed intoxicated, and has claimed in public that she's never smoked before. Psychological Profile: Subject appears distant and stand-offish, though whether this is out of shyness or snobbery is unclear. She seems most inclined to discuss the topic of music, and will often intentionally steer conversations toward that end. Her own fame seems a non-issue, as she seems almost unaware of it at times. Has an off-putting tendency to stare at others, and when the matter is brought to her attention, she appears to have been unaware of it. Associates: Before her arrival in Denver, her associations consisted of her family, those in the musical industry she needed to speak with (such as her roadies and band members), and Christian Schaefer, a man (it was rumored) she was having a relationship with. The two have since parted ways, amiably from all reports. One song on Vilify Erosion's album, however, is entitled after him. Most view the song as a 'burn' aimed at him, but others insist that most Vilify Erosion songs have a dozen potential meanings. Since arriving in Denver, she's become a tad more social, being seen to go to public places for -more- than just a performance or interview. |
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| Situational Diagnosis |
| When you are very still, the landscape stretches and reveals new things-- monoliths, previously dots on the horizon, loom and threaten to crush or force you to run; When you are very still, Landscape stretches, Reveals your presence... smells mean everything and can move you about in sleep as if they were pack animals bringing you of their own accord, by their own route in dead night to a green spot, to water, divining rods itching in your skull. Move about in sleep, Bringing you of their own accord, Water, rods itching in your skull. Thrusting my head under, I'm left prostrate to it-- your ghost's homecoming; I'm lost and strangled dumb with a throat full of water. Lost and strangled dumb with a throat full of your water. |