"We haven't written anything yet," she exhaled.

The afternoon sun glistened on the panes, but there was a slight overcast on the far-end of the horizon. A thin streak of gray, like an ink spilled on a bowl of water.

For a moment she continued to converse with the ceiling, her eyes fixed against the whispers of the roof. She closed her fist but her thoughts kept running out of her grip. It was a state of sheer clarity. She can vividly see the minutes suspended in midair, their faces anxious, afraid, uncertain and with each flinch of the hand of the clock, she had captured the details of how each of them fell, one by one, on the pavement, their flesh asunder and perishing slowly.

"The table pressed against the wall looks defeated in the darkness of this dungeon," she cursed, more to herself than to the atmosphere as her feet traversed the labyrinth of their discarded clothes, crossed the room, drew the chair and scattered her verses.