-

Her name was. My life stopped after her.

Fortunatly, she doesn't exist.

En algún lugar

El roce era frío, húmedo, suave e inmediato contra su cuerpo. Su piel era de mármol mientras era acariciada por el viento, suave, insistente. Sus palmas sintieron el pasto contra su piel, la tierra húmeda, al fin, le impidió seguir. Su cuello no distinguía su pelo del pasto, y su cuerpo, se olvidó de la ropa al serle inútil contra el viento. Su mente olvidó levantar paredes y lentamente, luego de segundos milenarios, olvidó conectarse con su cuerpo… El pasto la abrazó, el viento le cantó una canción de cuna, la luna iluminó su existencia, y las estrellas se llevaron su alma. La tierra bebió su sangre. Y el asesino se guardó el brillo de sus ojos…

No image.

Doomed beneath the light was a sure thought. (An educated guess. Doomed, she'd say. Doomed to never come back. Doomed as sure as the sky was falling in tears above.) The sound of her boots followed and guided her through the street. And out of her life. The wind resisted her... but what did it matter? Nothing would stop it. Not really. A decision was made and now days were going to fold accordingly. So the boots were a good idea she thought. Maybe not the cigarettes, but then again, who cares. Besides, these are good ones, the ones I truly like she chit-chatted with her self. The chit-chat was always there, but now, with the boots as a background and the rucksuck pulling her down while the cigarette let her fly, well, now chit-chat, wasn't such a bad idea.