her

A radio-static voice, high-pitched and brazen, tears through the stifled, fidgety moment. She wants to exit it, this second of impatience, this life of anxiety, but she doesn't know how. It seems impossible, that there is no sensible solution to the way she it. She wants to be more restricted yet she yearns to be unbridled. How can there be viscous and transparency all at once? Nothing makes sense and yet it is all so clear, however tragic, however magnificent, however unpredictable. She wishes someone would turn her inside out so at last her entrails could touch the ocean. Then, at last, she would know what if feels like to be outside herself. Today though, there are only the usual neurotic perfectionists and hateful admirers.

The tree in full view leans slightly to the left. One day it will lean until it lays and then there will be no more horizontal horizon, just the perpendicular crossing of what once seemed normal and safe. Everything it seems, intersects, at some point. Nothing runs parallel anymore, not even obliged race horses, collapsing, dying, bleeding from a rich man's boredom and insecurity. She can make no sense of it anymore. All she can do is watch and weep, silently, in obscurity, for all that crumbles.