Ciarra: Dear.

With an unreliable pace a girl walks steadily straight. Her hands are in her pockets, as evidenced by the occasional bulge of balled fists under denim. The ground beneath her feet is broken and not by her, but she likes to stamp as she charges along as if she were to blame. The cause rather than effect. She occupies her body in ways like this one and leaves it for her thoughts to hold her afloat. They sometimes look like this:

"It is ridiculous and relentless, the voice of their truth! How can it be that they can be believed? Where is the touch so soft on skin? Where, the breath, wholeheartedly inhaled? Why not? And why not admit content to imploring hands and eyes, when making believe in a search of any kind? How precious that each of us are here! We need no acknowledgment at all, nor must we always even consider one another. There is no such call for precaution! We're here anyway, all the time. And every step is mine, like the lines I refuse to walk--and trace--and say--and cross. This is true too, I'd like to say to them."