She is always thinking in a languid manner.
She is troubled.
She is tied up.
She wants the best.
Always wanting the best.
There is compromise, but she doesn't want to feel it.
We live our lives pretending not to know.
That's why they hate the word "compromise.
They are afraid that their dislike and dislike will grow and become a product of compromise.
They are afraid of being human.
Today, I spend another depressing day.
She is looking at another melancholic day.
The day is somehow illuminated as she peers out from her bounded place, seeking the best.
I want to blend in with that light, even if only a little.
But I am afraid.
She is not actually troubled, she is afraid.
Hands are better than mouths.