She would never admit she cares how she looks; she's got a reputation to maintain after all. She's always in those same jeans, the one all ripped and torn, faded with wear and tear, but her bathroom's plastered with pictures from the pages of magazines— waify, nonchalant expressions, locked gazes, meteor showers and unfamiliar places. The floor of her room is littered with schedulers, maps, brochures and travel agencies pamphlets, all in preparation for when she makes her big escapade. Strolling on the streets with her bestest of best shoes on soles.
Before bed, she tries on all sorts of faces. The land of dress-ups and make-believe among her favourites. Pretending that she is somewhere else, someone else: sometimes she just wants to be an anonymous(in brown grey and ash), an invisible person taking in the manifiques of scenaries, in other times, she wishes to be the brazen ones of all, an exotic Liberian princess, maybe, an Edwardian debutante; someone accomplished, someone beautiful... Afterward though, she gets into her covers so no one would find out she was making grandiose plans to go places.
It's the end of summer and she's living in the middle of an empty expanse of land but she knows there's so much more out there— big cities on the other side of the country, vast blue skies with their purple bellies full of rain that reach out toward an infinitude of forever...
One day, she'll see them all, she's sure.
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