the most picturesque of solitudes

sometimes she stands on the top of a steep, high hill and calls out her own name. just to see if anyone calls back. just in case she has made some form of error and she is not really who/ what/ how she thinks she is. sometimes she rushes home as fast as her legs can carry her to write down the names of those that she has sailed her kite
with in the early evening breeze (after they have responded to her shouts from the hilltop.)sometimes she writes their names on pieces of light blue card with a little hole punched into the top of it with yarn in her dress pocket to attach said card to her kite (in order that there is no chance of her loosing their names in the windy corners of her young mind) before she reaches home. tonight the kite caught on a bramble and the sky-coloured cards tore off and flew to the hastily reddening night sky that surrounded her.sometimes, (in the hours, days, weeks, months and years to come) she will cry sore and heart-broken tears at the names that she lost; the friends that she will never find again.




(but that bit doesn't matter an awful lot anyway as none of these other characters really existed in the first place.)