At month's end.
A prim and proper stroll down the marketplace, a smug look on her heavily made-up face.
A lazy shuffle into the nearest waiting elevator, a swift and sweeping look of the minions holding the door.
We have these infinite delusions of grandeur: from gifting things with meanings that are not there; to spinning simple old mysteries into complicated new realities; by painting new glass ceilings so high, they leave an unsightly crack in the sky.
Despite the minute hiccups and glowering stars that shimmered overhead with anger, the world continues to turn, with or without you. The results are simply irreversible, for no one is indispensable.
A package unarrived, a missed opportunity of a lifetime. A full exercise in futility that teaches more than just humility. But I have been hoping against hope for far too long now, and I wonder if I will ever learn.