Ciarra

There are certain streetlights as yet unwatched by sensors. These change instead with a timer and move with the speed of snow(flakes--freezing, falling, and fading away). On a night that's cold this is seen by gray-anxious eyes, confounded by/disengaged with the contentment they embody as they flick from red to greed and hesitate, before letting in yellow to return them to red once more, and every time.

The shade belonging to the eyes is a light one, a quality when inherent to gray which can be disconcerting to say the least. Both the colorless state of her irises and the intensity thrumming within the prefect stillness in which she holds herself, looking up at the light, impress upon a person something like a disgusted awe: most have felt nothing like her, even stranger though she is, and desire to never again.

This is not her concern.

Besides which, it is much too late in the evening for this city to play her witness. She likes the temporary belief that she could remain the single person still in the grips of wakefulness. As her and her steel-restless companion are the only ones up waiting for god, she is humbled at last.

("How can she look at the world with empty eyes and be right about it--?"
"Well it's not that she's right, she just understands something to it--"
"But even then, I'm not sure if it's possible, I mean, you've got me believing it but still, I suspect I shouldn't...or something--"
"I know, it's like nobody ought to know what she knows--"
"Yeah, exactly--"

At the school for the deaf, she wasn't able to understand her classmates or the bitterness they follow with prideful tenacity; the bitterness they trusted with biting naivety. She felt that for all they thought they were, they should at least believe something greater their own sake/ then themselves. She wondered what it would be like to expect nothing more just because no more could be imagined, and she hoped they were curious about her behavior when it differed from their own. And she still didn't know how to explain this.

But it stayed when she stood here beneath the hum-shouts of the traffic light that knew only of what it did, so that she felt as close to being something other than herself as she yet found to be otherwise possible. The worthlessness struck her with the truth of futility and she forgot even these thoughts with a solid sense of gratitude.

As beauty can never be tolerated for long, she continues her walk. She knew that there would be other streetlights, willing along the lengths of her sidewalk, waiting to keep her company. She was perpetually in between them.

Withholding from herself the lavish privilege of dissatisfaction, she went smiling on. The sky complained a symphonic fiasco to give (the context?) an ambiance to her thoughts, so she only half noticed. Her mind seemed a hosed-down battleground that remembered anyway. Her eyes held the most persuasive argument for sleep as her blinking became slow and halting. Had she been driving it would be time for coffee, but as her slight stumbling became more regular it acquired its own rhythm: She knew the feeling wasn't dangerous in itself, and she allowed herself to enjoy the closing in that it consisted of. Her frame of reference shifting, everything began to shine in the lighted question of just how comfortable it could be to lay down upon.

Small evidences of the fatality within human nature were placed deliberately on the things/ what her eyes could reach to see. The deserted shopping cart by a lake; the refuse scattered in the grass; the swelling jealousy of one another evident in every fenced yard; the compulsive ruination of anything beautiful, no matter how humble.

And all for nothing. For the thrumming desperation pushing these things into reality from imagination is in itself telling of all wonder with its slight intent. Of beauty, still breathing.