The sun-filled corridor Burns brightly in the heat of That ephemeral, sweltering season. She sits at the edge of the hallway, Looking at the other side wistfully, Her eyes seem to be reaching out to the other side. To just be on that side for one moment; To be nearer to the light, instead of staying in this place of darkness. Heart filled with despair, the streams from the river Fall freely down her alabaster colored face. Her hands reaching out, pleading for a warm touch, A Valentine embrace; a Christmas kiss under the mythical mistletoe. People with their eyes hooked to their silicate screens Ignore her. Even she calls out to them for attention, but they don’t Hear. Their minds are too far into themselves. They don’t care. Nor They ever will, much to her chagrin. The silence kills her the most. It’s the antithesis of cacophony. Would she rather a discordant note pervading the entire room than suffering through silence? She still remembers the day she lost her voice. The day she felt that the world was coming to an end because she wasn’t Good enough for the masses of mainstream people who never lose Anything but hours of sleep. This girl can’t lose sleep because she never can sleep. She can’t feel anything. She can’t taste the sweetness of the chocolate logs That stay on the table near the Christmas tree. She watches as her old family Savours every dark, sugary, nearly sinful taste of it. She can’t feel the texture of The wall. She can’t even see past the house. She can never leave. Not since that Fateful day. Do they still remember their daughter? Has she become a distant, yet inevitably ephemeral scrapbook remnant?