Hasty paints a sad poem picture.



She had been lying on the floor staring at the ceiling for some length of time.  The sun had come and gone and the day had not made any new marks upon her recollection.  Realization would come.  But not right now.

Eventually she would fall asleep and dream about screaming cats and falling rainbows.  Hordes of red angels would march in sharp lines from one horizon to the next until the only thing left of her dreams was a throbbing headache behind swollen eyes.


She was old.  Overweight.  Exhausted and all out of fun.  She had nothing left to give and it was showing.  Her unkempt hair, chipped nail polish, sandpaper heels, and bristly leg hair proved its case to everyone who saw her.  This was it.  The end.


Her naked body felt as if it had been strapped to the floor.  How long had she been lying…

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