The rain breaks, it is angry when it hits: the rain leaves the street empty-handed.
There is a woman next to the door with eyes rimmed by a kind of defeat.
Her moves are slow, this woman is cold-blooded; she is moved by cold-blood.
When the woman speaks, her voice is almost used-up. This woman has fought for long enough now, and today she still stands, but she stands knowing the ugly side to it all: to all the other people; and this side she knows too well.
Somone should have told her - Get to the bone, bite into it, wrench it out.
There is no response when the woman knocks on the door, and when she knocks on the door again, the only sign of life is a lit window. There is also the hiss of rain and the rickety thumps of her heart.
And when you are woken up by a twitch in plain night, and there is no one next to you but a moon’s touch and a clock that ticks, this woman is you.