Her spectre-steps linger and prolong her arrival to whoknowswhere. She clutches stacks of papers and books in a desperate hug. The scrunched brow and thin-lipped expression damn up a reservoir of emotion. And her eyes see things beyond sight. Those hollow orbs view a memory; an unholy vision played out on an ethereal stage. The sun does not exist for her, simply a waning moon this afternoon. And she'll never be like the women she spends her savings trying to imitate. Now her concrete cracks and saline lines collect in the open space of her lids. They don't fall. A testament to pure numbing steel of will. But the pressure is patient. Pressure to be, to do, to love, to resolve. In this moment she learns to live. She must spend this night outside and learn to sleep in spite of it; to make the most of dawn. She doesn't know the flaming star will rise to burn out those dewey drops. This, like all good times, will pass.
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