She writes: I awake to a cold touch. Two arms in four-armed bed. - TopicsExpress

She writes: I awake to a cold touch. Two arms in four-armed bed. The touch of wind wrapping around me. Im trying to follow its scent. The scent of isolation. Every door opened, every aspect of our life... gone. Hauling around our memories. Every corner a display of our life. A life I assume will never be the same again. No signs, no clues. A game that I will question until the end. Where have you gone? Was I ever important? The late nights lend ideas, but nothing to gather actual progress.

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