She speaks to herself sometimes, often mumbling. The creatures that live with her answer with curious eyes and hungry mouths. The days and nights roll like liquid slowly streaming down a steep street. She tries to write but the words are not arriving like before. She wonders, wonders at the reason, the purpose, the necessity of this existence. Her existence. This laborious rebirth; blissful, spiritual, quick in its slowness; emptying after a memory refill. She still mutters to herself. She pauses while washing the dishes like time stood in mourning for a moment. The thoughts quieter and the heart ticks away its beats. She thinks of the lust that entered her and she yearns. Yearns to settle for the unsettled.
Fireworks. Sparkles exploding in the sky, glittering, shining, casting light on the darkness for mere seconds. Fading, imploding, like an orgasm that should have lasted longer. The sounds popping, crackling, bouncing off the cold red walls of this ancient ascending earth. If her hand could be held, would that make a difference? If her lips were kissed, would she have felt complete? Her hands buried in her pockets from the sharp winds, some parts of her body ache in pain and others ache in pleasure. Would it really have made a difference? Her body held tight? Will she be aware at all?