The light in the studio was dim now. she peered out, silent and a strange loneliness descended upon her. She had looked for hours at the profile of the artist in the light of the dusk. Dusk, the word sounded so weak, like a gust of wind could blow it away. Yes, a breeze could blow the image of the artist's profile in orange twilight away like powder. When the artist left, leaving the door ajar as always into some other world which existed somewhere else. She had looked again and again, with that same hunger. Was it hunger really? Or maybe it is just this loneliness. She heard sound of rats feet, or maybe sand thrown against the wooden walls on the exterior of this tiny space. Where she waits. She has asked herself so many times why this waiting. She feels powerless all the time. Weak like that word dusk. Like the shadows which lengthen and stretches across the floor of the studio eventually reaching her lap. The end, she knows is always the same. The shadows take over, always. Like tonight, and the artist leaves. What makes her patient? She is not, she knows she is not patient. Still she is here. Why? She has forgotten.

The artist's profile in the orange glow which lit a side of her face. Whose face? Her face or the artist's as the shade deepens and the stars appear in that window which looks over the trees, river just behind that profile. There were twilight stars. She told the artist, and she had turned around to look at the twilight blue powder sky. Once the artist had said to her "bread and water" and she had felt alive. "Don't move. I can't capture you, your essence". She should have said, it's because we are dusk.

The studio is dark now. She can spy a corner of the moon over the window frame. So silver ethereal. Its liquid spilling all over the studio floor. What a mess, she had cringed. She always hated the nights, where everything became so sharp like the edge of a blade. There were hours when everything could have cut her. Everything in the studio, from the basin to the chair became brittle and knife-like. And the light sets aglow the small mirror in the corner of the room reflecting the wooden floor, tiny bed and her. The mirror like a magic portal, a gateway of silver fire light and razor blades. She catches a glimpse of her own eyes in that awkward angle. She is looking to the side, her profile inside a frame. She sees once again tonight, her picture world. How she can only look out of the window frame or only see that door ajar but never turn around. Through the mirror she can see the world behind her. It is the world of a studio in the light of dusk. In that world behind her which she can never turn to see, there is no mirror, and the door for the first time is closed.

She looked around. Panicked. She had a single match, this candle she has been clutching and the hungry darkness which engulfed her. That draught of sudden cold air had killed the light quite suddenly and abruptly. Should she wait for the signal? Would either 2687 or 2689 come for her. What if they too failed to protect their own light and let the wind wipe it away with its chilly breath? And if quite a number of them on the series had their lights put out too, how long would it take before someone reached her from either end? It could be days or weeks even if a long line of them suffered the unexpected light out. A distance of almost 15 mile separated every single one of them. She could run in this blackness with nothing visible nor any light to guide her, but then she could never be sure there weren't some treacherous hole somewhere waiting for her to fall through to her demise. She waited. How long? The candles were their gauge for the passing time in this darkness where no light of the sun nor beam of the moon touched. They were deep inside the Earth in this abdominable darkness with its constantly damp smell of death and decay. All things go into the depth of the Earth in death. It could have been one candle burning time or even two.

She heard a whistle. Was it the wind rushing in with the directed energy of a bullet through a shaft through the deep tunnel? Or was it one of her own calling out in the distance. If it was a signal what could it mean? She has been in here for too long. A chest of burnt out candles and disfigured wax, she remembered. But she couldn't be sure. without any stimulant here for memory it was hard to remember. It was easier to work, act and not think. She had a rope and a shovel somewhere. She believe. But without her sight, it was hard to believe anything. Equally hard to confirm anything, she felt her own face. Just to be certain. Then her neck, shoulders, torso, arms and legs. Her arms were damp, wet with sweat? Blood even. Has she been bleeding? What if she had injured herself unknowingly and was now bleeding to death? When the shaft of wind came and the blackness which followed was so sudden, she had felt a jarring sensation of losing consciousness. It was as if she had been knocked out, and now in the moments which followed she had to convince herself that she had somehow survived a trauma and having survive mentally she now needed to survive physically too.

The whistle again. She howled, not knowing how to whistle and thinking that might carry her voice further down the tunnel then if she shouted words. Words do no good in this place. The echoes would soon distort any sound. That's why the high pitched whistle was efficient. Anyway, what were the words one used when in distressed? she no longer remembered. Her howl reverberrated into the darkness. A whistle in reply. But how far away did the whistle come from? 15 miles from here in total darkness? She still had that match but if she had forgotten everything she had not forgotten that that match was only to be used in life threatening situtations. She only figured out the futility of this action at this moment--that if she should be in peril, that little match would do her little good. IF anything it was a symbol of hope, soemthing she would not use unless she has come to terms with the idea that she would die. If she did not want to belief that death was on the horizon she must in no circumstance light that match. If not she would surely die, from the very fact of her acknowledgment in lighting it.

The whistle again. She moved toward the sound and sounded a howl of her own. It was a good strategy, because if she whistled back, the person at the other end could never be sure it was not an echo of his/her own voice whistling back in mockery. The whistle seemed to be growing louder, just as her howl must have been growing louder for the other person. Her howl and then that whistle in reply, she kept inching forward toward that sound. Forward? It had to be forward she thought to herself. OR backward. There were only two directions in this place. Forwad or backward in the tunnel depending on where she was facing. She had no idea which side held the key to exiting this dreaded place. She had been in here long enough to lose all sense of orientations. The whistle again. Louder. She picked up her pace. she had been running she realized. she howled as she ran. Even if she had no conception of the passing time, she knew that the faster she got to the source of the sound. The higher the chance of her preserving her life. A whistle came back. She howled and ran. She wondered how many inside the tunnel at this moment was doing the very same thing. She was lucky she felt. She had heard only sound from one direction. If she had heard a signal from both ends, she might have been confused and forced to stay put.

After God knows how long. Running. Howling. Listening. She felt that the whistle came from almost right in front of her. Close. The sound was close now. The darkness she had long gotten used to. But now what? The darkness was still complete and ruled over the place and hers senses. She imagined she could even taste the denseness of the darkness. The whistle was within her reach now, it was still too dark to do any good. And the closeness of the sound was not comforting. Her match. Use it. She thought. She struck it, lit her candle. The light was blinding even though it should have been dim and comforting. A small circle of light surrounded her. Forming an arc, encircling her almost in protection. But that circle of protection was small, darkness still reigned outside that small circumference. She hummed now instead of howling to show she was not aggressive and wanted contact. Silence. Then a timid whistle as a boy her own age stepped into her circle. He held out one unlit match and his extinguished candle. She nodded. Smiled. Placed the burning wick next to that dead black wick of his. The fire caught, the brightness of the circle doubled and enlarged. Then they stood in the new found brightness. Held hands for strength and called out together into the darkness which stretched far beyond their knowledge into the unknown. Silence. Then the sound of another call. Together they set off to find it.

The end, will
come--arrive in grandeur
like fall falling
upon us unprepared
I will forget to be
sad
no longer hoping
remembering, recalling every excruciating detail
every action, a wrong choice
and hateful regret of your smiles and my
hesitations
haltingly, jerkily moving forward then creeping back into the black wormhole
to hide from fear
to be safe from God-knows-what
we did to dare to feel, to go forward in that dreaded word
and backward again--like a drifting
thought
places will no longer be special
private meanings a mere joke, a satire of my desire
which is in itself silly
Nothing will signify anything
worthy of my attention or time
or lingering
Movement
will replace the frozen time--stagnant
and breeding maggots
to feed upon my cherished girlish fancies
I will go to places
take off
and leaf
and fly
if I can only find that wind which
will take me away
and make me forgetful
blisssfully