The newspapers scattered on the kitchen table, the ring slipped on her finger agitating knuckle, the slippery surface, the freshly rolled cigarette perched on the edge of the ashtray. And as she looked up, the sun shone through the window on a bright new crisp day.
Inside, her reality. Outside, a brand new world aching for her revival. Inside, comfort familiarity and mess. Outside, energy and purpose, function and response.
And she lingered, ventured a look to the great skies but sun's glaze concealed beyond tall willow tree was distorted through sash window.
Inside, the smell of ash and stale booze, clothes strewn, books and papers, used glasses and wrappers awaiting cleaning or disposal or both.
There she waited, there she dwelt, there she awaited her renewed spirit, there she picked at books listlessly, there she found no form, no function that satisfied, there she stayed and idly wondered....
There she picked up her coat, retrieved her keys, opened the door and emerged.
There the world welcomed her.