Did she still listen to David Bowie on hot summer days when her metal fan refused to oscillate? With her long messy hair wrapped up with an elastic band barely holding on by a stretch? Sometimes in nothing but her cotton underwear with the “tacky” floral print and a thin tank top. With a pen in her hand, her eyes would focus on the blank page eagerly waiting to be filled with the endless possibilities that reached pass the depth of her mind. The soles of her feet would smooth down the crinkles in her bedsheet, or kick the heavy winter blankets to the corner. Blankets that she still kept out because the summer nights weren’t as scorching as the days. Or just as reassurance that even in the town she called home she was never alone. The sun was now halfway hidden in the horizon, sending a bright orange flourishing across the sky. I walked down the street across the road from her apartment, with a brown paper bag in one hand and a bag full of take out in the other. Instinctly I stopped and looked up second floor, third window from the last. Her window sill was covered in plants both alive and dead, the glass frosted with a dirty fog. With the wooden frame cracked open slightly being held up with a plank of wood, I could faintly hear “Heroes” drifting out softly disappearing into the changing sky. 


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