You cannot see out and they cannot see in. Until the sliver of light is sliced, favoring the inner's escape. The inner feebling in fear to view the what apart from the why. Those outside want in, at least to know what's there. And then? Binge viewing silence from either side.
People gather and express their loss in a quiet way at slow speed, just savoring together the comfort of sharing how subtraction feels to heart and skin. One among them is the first to try to claim the place that's opened up by way of the departure. Missing the point of sadness and rushing to fatten up the coffer at the first chance.
She was unconsciously beautiful. Most people thought she was from Boston or possibly New York, but she hailed from a micro-village in the West. Her mind shimmered with elegant intelligence who considered herself no different from anybody else. When cousins visited, her speech descended into common folk inflections. It is possible she could not tell how naturally she adapted to a past decidedly unlike her present tense. She had the capacity to sit and chat about pale things for hours, as she had grown up accommodating others' ways. Her beauty seemed out of place in that tiny burg she spoke about. She declared her home town factual; friends went along with the story. She seemed able to keep up with or outpace the geniuses she met. And geniuses wanted other geniuses to know her. She was a scenic thinker's thinker. She trailed no one, and she did so colorfully.
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