Just a few hours earlier, she was telling me her dreams of leaving everything behind. Detailed, her visions were. Every word was thought out and structured, almost as if she had written them down before she spoke them. Yet, as she spoke, a nostalgia hung in the air. The words seemed stale, dated. As if she had written them days, even months before. It bugged me for a bit, but I suppose most things do.

She spoke to me about her dreams, as if she had planned to act them out. Down to the paint of the car. Down to the speed she traveled.

She told me goodbye and then laid down next to me. Her words still hung in the air. They were sweet, yet putrid, like a dead rat crumbled over a fresh baked pie. Like a book with pages missing. Like a cool breeze on a summer day.

Now, her breathing is patterned .

Two seconds of inhaling.
Two seconds of exhaling.

Yet her body, oh, her body is so cold.

Something is very wrong.