In a room full of dust, her love is shipwrecked. On a bed with unwashed sheets, her flesh slips from bone, and there, away from the world, she finds the meaning of life tucked between her third and fourth rib. Upon the coffee-ringed desk blanketed with dust, a tidal wave forms in a cup of water from the passing traffic outside her window. When the cup topples over, it floods the room that is her surrogate womb, and although the curtains block out most of the sun, the thin slithers that creep in do their best to caress her sleeping face. Although, really, she’s not sleeping at all, only pretending. Time takes its toll, and so curled into a ball, she denies it the same as she denies the leering eyes that undress her whenever she walks about this strange new town with its mysterious buildings and foggy streets that speak to her of memories that have yet to be. In each reflection that meets her brown eyes from the windows of the stores that will one day become the dust on her desk, the future plays out on the same page as the past, and together, they dance a dance that whisks her off her feet.