SHE STARES BLANKLY AT THE NEWSPAPERS...

She stands on the platform, clutches her bag, and waits for the train. She stares blankly at the newspapers in a row, fidgeting with her coat buttons as she waits for her flight, the one to everywhere and nowhere. She fazes in and out of life as she waits in the queue at the supermarket. She stands on stumps of feet, stands as still as the ether. She sits at the table, her hands flat out in front of her. She feels the coolness of the surface hard up against her palms, while the roughness touches her finger tips. Her skirt sits below her knees, sometimes above, so much depends on mood, the drift of consciousness. She pulls her knees together as she sits, for no other reason than because she can. There are no smiles, but then there are no frowns. She wades through life, she glides through life - it depends on the day. Her hair is long, her hair is short, her hair is deep and red, her hair is faded and grey. She counts the lives lived by tapping her fingers on the counter top.