Find a new sense of the world. Fragments of self are left behind. Too much is lost, dropped and broken on the way. Thin lines mark her face, divide it. Her footsteps are heavy, they resound in the corridor as she tries to find the new entrance to the old library. The pieces, like shards of broken glass, glimmer in the winter sun, waiting to be picked up by someone else. Perhaps she spends too much time by herself. Reads too much and sees too little, that she cannot feel. There are strings of thought. Seemingly never ending strings of thought. Different colored strings of wool in her head, bungled. Her tired eyes wolf down the words on the yellowing paper, deprived still. Little beads of sweat line her upper lip.Words come out, but with difficulty. They always have. The knot in her head is loosened but it refuses to open. Perhaps it's best to leave it as it is.
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