Looking at half-eaten projects, she begins her day.
Time seems as restless as her core: her content has paradoxical wings.

Dichotomies of worlds above and chthonian earth, eat her up throughout the day. Until she finds herself in busy-intestine-streets. (Imagines) a voice (that) rises from the crowd:
  “We died a myriad deaths,
the question is, who killed us?”
Greasy rain and mud, clogging clouds and dusty cars. Genocides are not necessarily where they are expected to be.

Counting signs of the times as meaningless as time itself, she collects intuitions and sign-posts in her basket of omens.

Sudden is the choice to take the dead-end street, turning her back on the emerald green light that covers like powder the dirty façade of a department store. Needles of water fall from the sky, unsteady cobblestones under her feet: she discovers the narrow street. Windows only see windows, eye to eye contact with emptiness, while the sunlit spots are only a few steps away.
Irony.

Narrower, the street’s arrow leads to the wound of city-life, shamefully hidden from the eye. And she keeps walking, just to prove what she knows already. It must be that blood asks for recognition as wine, for a glass.

Now, she touches the wound - its palpitating ridge of flesh that feels like the edge of her world - and is ready to finally unwind. Then, it’s time to go backwards. Sdrawkcab og ot emit s’ti neht.

Dualities and oxymoron stick to her head and tongue like a well-known song. Sweet-sour, half-squeezed lemons on the run. In every silence, a revolution, in every word, a victory. She hums. In every silence, a pregnancy, in every word, a birth.
Clearly.