Her heart was like a blank cheque, offered to the least approachable by-passer under some hardly convincing excuse. Again and again she took that terrifyingly familiar path, seeking to be discovered, yet striving to remain forever lost, inventing new ways to make the same mistakes, though infinitely tired of repetition.

And when the days grew shorter, the moon would always find her alone on an autumn beach, carving expressions of aggression on impersonal masks, adding footnotes of indifference to manuscripts
of abandonment, wondering which deep-rooted need was pushing
her towards a life she never wished to live, before letting the waves wash it all away…

As time's embrace tightens, our dreams run out of oxygen.