She rode into the town, steered her country.
Solo ochre headlights attracted moths
to her lashed eyes and every day, she walked
over the pavings that made her noticed,
yet she saw nobody turn a glance in her direction.
She made it that way into the next millennium
and onwards into the welcome cornershop
for more cigarettes. They were still necessary,
for at that time, a smoke kept her friends at the end
of a phone line, ordering meals to be consumed
over poignant movie hero themes.
And the talk was fine, it divided the nights from the days.
It made the clock tick by so quietly in the background,
waiting behind the music that possessed the years
that couldnt quite be written down in a locked diary
for any longer.
The time stopped until it was reset for the next hour,
to call her back to the little girl who so wanted to exist
in an easier century, described in three pages left
to read in an Andersen fairy tale.