Desperately growing in the corners of despair.

Upon an occasion, a moment’s reflection, she discovered that the pause between days had leaped seamlessly and without observation: There could be no doubt that an advancement had occurred, though there was no remnant of evidence which would allow for safe proof of Time’s push having ever existed. She had fallen and when she arose there was another day blooming before her, one more or less damaged than the others, one shimmering with the potential for calm and…

( There was a road that carried her towards the purpose for her excursion, a destination, a conclusion. There were gifts hidden in the crevices of the city, alleyways playing host to the most exquisite of festivities, tiny parcels of possibility squirreled away in the most unlikely of places: She smiled at them as she acknowledged them and subsequently passed them by. )

…consideration, a day painted upon the finest of linen. She wrestled with the notion of it: This uncommon thing, this alien thing built of minutes as thin as matchsticks, each moment as inflammable as the one before it, each eager to alight from the airiness of today’s firmament, it perched upon the ruin lasting beneath this evening’s dismantled sky. She cherished these things, these rarest of particles: The preciousness of a day undisturbed knows no worth other than the contented purr of those who collect within its comforting shadow: Those alone with thoughts composed as they decompose in seclusions dampened and undesigned.