I have her screenplay in my hand.  I scooped it up from a bus bench while I rode by on my bicycle.  Her screenplay followed me to a meeting, and I held it in my hand while I counted the day's calories during a bipolar woman's heart felt share.  I held it in my hand as I slowly followed a sychzophrenic woman to hear what she was ranting about.  It's going to go home with me, and into my room.  I probably won't even read it; I'll throw it atop a bunch of other stuff.  She probably left it on purpose for some movie executive to find and discover her.