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.