sally cinnamon

alice was a strange and useless type of girl. serpentine and waiflike she drafted through the halls of parties like the wind. somewhat noticeable and existing from out of nowhere. she walked the streets on her way home in the end tails of autumn, the cold numbing her limbs into moveable bits of marble, marching on toward her house. when it was late and she knew no one was awake she walked in the middle of the roads taking her time, almost dancing to the emptiness. she enjoyed the feeling of being alone. she enjoyed the empty road as she knew for that moment in the dark of winter this road was hers, for this moment it belonged to her. for this time, everything could be her way. her skin would be dry as she arrived home, ears aching from the change in temperature. her body emitting the cold air as if an extention of outdoors, and finally as the leftover haze took possession over her she would laugh at the phrases she pulled together in her head, tragic and nonsensical. the street outside her window lay before her electricity-less. dark and lonely as it had been before. it made little to no effort in becoming approachable. the steely exteriors were hell bent on being unforgettable. she lay in her bed for a while before falling to sleep. watching shadows play amongst her ceiling, no thoughts of time went through her head, no ideas of abstraction, just warmth of the body. this was the time she could never take outside of these unearthly hours. the mutual discreetness of four in the morning. the personification of herself in a time. perhaps if this hour would take course for an extension of time she could understand more. her actions became second nature, without thought or remorse, this hour would nod in empathy. this hour would understand. only few were able to comprehend this time of night. the disturbed and desolate.