You see her everyday, dressed in that scruffy dark, yet simultaneously pallid, winter fur coat induced by the inevitable passage of time. She wears it even on the warmest summer days, when the neighborhood is colored by the blazing sun. Her hair tangled and gray, webs itself into a plethora of hidden secrets. Her makeup dabbed onto her face like a painter’s faded canvas. She, the lady who forgot how to smile.
She awakens in you the idea of a star. It has lived for many and many years and has endured the strenuous passage of our nonexistent time that when it has finally become visible, it has already died. It carries a dull shine, easily observable from light years away. Yet, it has forgotten how to flaunt, so it simply appears. She is that way. She roams the streets unknowingly and sustains the aura of thousands of angry men. A tigress waiting to attack. An animal seeking out her prey. A star waiting to die.
To intermingle with death would be to place death upon us. We hide behind bushes and glimpse through our windows fearing the potential lapse of a fallen star.