To where it once was.

She had words filtering in and out of her mind. Promptly, she plopped herself into this seat only to find a silent occupant dwelling in her head. A vaccuum, of nothingness abound. She laughed to herself. A piteous laugh. When nothing fans out to be everything and everything becomes nothing, is she looking for something? She knows the answer.

Her amative imaginings, accordingly, reached the verge and vaulted across the retaining wall. The multifarious marvel of her congested nuances conjured a vexation gamely quaffed. For such was the straining avarice poised, the mutterings whipped were mere noise. And she suffered this noise. Jarring. An artifice of thought strung another, aligned in rumination.

Fruits she can never eat
Water she can never drink.

Melancholy cradled by the past, parent to the apparent void. Tarried has she, scant and found wanting. Wanting of that which is simple. That which is not said transcends superficial utterances. That which is said lawns the spokes of the unspoken blades. The insipid vessel that she is scrapes at splattered mirth.

Till there is none.