Fine lines in the sky brown carpet trace layers of dusky clouds. She greets them with the left side of her face. "Hello carpet," she answered, "you are my crib."
Her hands drag along edges of rough carpet tendrils. Fingers passing through brown fields of husk, she exhales slowly. Abruptly, her eyes momentarily open.
Whispers from a quiet mouth are unheard. Exactly what anyone was not hearing was the beauty of silent whispering. A covert operation which binds her together when she is most vulnerable to collapse.
She never asks to see anyone. Or dares to phone. There is no solace for her in the vile race of humans. No rest. No comfort.
A remedy, a panacea, a cure; what could it be?
Cliché but true. Only her.
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