she is sitting at her desk,
a Kilner bottle full of light at her side,
and she is writing.
she writes of joy and of love,
of death and of heartbreak,
and of loneliness.
the girl is so, so lonely;
even her friends don't talk as much as she wishes they would.
her family argue, after being cooped up for months,
and the girl sits at her desk
and writes.
it's a solitary existence,
almost unfulfilling in its isolation;
she can feel her liveliness draining away,
day by desperate day.
the girl sits at her desk,
and writes
and writes
and writes.
