A most extraordinary title, indeed.

She thinks in terms of existence rather than life, and all existence is equivalent. The ever-motion of opinions as processes is palpable as she glides her way forward and into the range of a glance. She'd like to talk into its silence but she stares instead, chalk-full of potential. As if what could be has any claim on what already is. As if her willingness gives way to her possibility and not, rightly-so, the other way around. With the taste of ice in her mouth there's no such bitter mood that can best her intentions.

Where will she go from here? She feels the possibility of an end getting slim between her thoughts and she doesn't know what to make of this. Every time she begins following a path it seems to diverge endlessly, and this appearance of freedom she knows will bring suffocation as it solidifies her life behind her. Without courage's assurance her hands look like foreigners before her face, like they'll never make it past her arms.

She's looking for something. Not necessarily something she's lost, but perhaps. It's this lack she feels more strongly than anything, and she fails to note the implication of this--that is, that it is this lack which is in her possession most readily, like a fullness before nothing at all. This nothing that's hers already makes it possible for her to partake in a ceaseless/senseless completion with the world apart from her. It is this that must be shown, somehow to encompass all of it within description.