The sting from the bleach teases her dark hair into a dirty blonde.

It suits her intentions, her need to blend in for the moment, and the ultimate transition to new plans.

She remembers the days when her intentions were simple, wholesome, and perhaps normal.

A house, family, maybe even love, but that changed as time passed.

Time is plentiful, and the desire for adrenaline surpasses by far the entertainment that any human could ever provide willingly.

Legs stretched out in front of the window, she draws the city before her, but irony has it that the curtains are closed.

As in the atomic days, her drawings explode on paper without warning or notice.

Draw and exact copy, but make it the image from within.  

The eyes see no such creativity unless the mind pushes to the edge of limitation and scrutiny.

This confession, has meant nothing.