She dons attire with the intent solely to fold into the masses. She looks down at her skirt now and again in perfect repetition and wonder if her life might have existed elsewhere, in another time. What would she be doing and where would she look...
She walks along lazily and notices herself in the reflection of a handbag store window and smiles. She reaches down and pulls the hem of her skirt outward and curtsies to the vehicle that carries her soul through.
A grey drop of gum lays flattened near her shoe.
A section of moss grows at the building's base where the sidewalk meets the brick.
A cigarette butt rolls to the gutter with the breeze bound for the drain, to the channel, to the sea.
With eyes squinted and head tilted to the side she studies herself as another might study her. "If I adapt today will I struggle tomorrow?" she questions the glass. "...and if I am at ease for the moment how shall I rest in the back-blast of failure?" Another question put forth.
She frumps her arms down to her sides and stands straightened.
She pets the wrinkles in her skirt flat.
She steps backwards away from the windowpane until she can see only a glare from the sun.
Asking advice from a phantom will only cause solutions to moan outside your closed door in the night.
Sift through and in between the crowd and seek out the one standing with his head lit, almost on fire, billowing with colors and shapes and sounds and notions and words.
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