her fingers danced along the window sill, moving this way and that, a mock scene of a woman dancing on the cobblestone streets of Paris. besides the lone streetlight the night was dark outside the window. back and fourth, back and fourth the pretty little woman in a over priced lacy black dress danced. she spun this way and that. her hair, being it's own entity, following only seconds behind her movements, shadowing her with a sort of forlorn air. she tipped her head back and stretched her arms wide, spinning. she inhaled, breathing in reality, and exhaled her dreams. a little light headed, now, but still she danced. outside the window the rain fell in sheets. all those tears, all those memories, all those moments that she held so dear, running rampant free and wild down the streets, bare and naked for the world. bare and naked, vulnerable.. only to slip away into the nothingness of the storm drain. marked with a fish. she danced now upon her freedom, her bare feet gliding across the worn and cracking wood. she danced among the arachnids and carcasses of meals past, amongst the pin holes and lost bobby pins, till at last her hand rested upon the latch. her eyes were lost. glazed with passion. it was all right there, all so close. this could be it, this would be it, her freedom, her moment, and without further ado the window was thrown open, the curtains swept aside, the screen removed in haste and out she went, taken up in the draft of the night air, taken up on the sweet scent of long ago, and the promise of tomorrow. she didn't need wings, no.. no. hovering now amongst the beauty of that awful and tragic night, that quiet and calm night, that heart warming - strength filled - glory of a night, she would gaze down, down to the street, watching her memories fall. crash. breathe & find life while moving ever forward, ever downward toward the storm drain. marked with a fish.