She watched and she reached. A spectator to herself grasping at a foreign world so familiar as present melts to past and the Colombian nights dissolve in piss puddles of cerveza and memory. Of shifting faces and wandering hearts reaching reaching reaching towards screeching voices of recognition and first meeting. All of the songs she left behind she serenades her lips at the edge of understanding why the lust in her gut leads her towards early rises and late nights that leave vague discomfort at the base of her spine. An ending of bone and story. It lives in withering organs and decomposition of flesh. Again the inorganic finds itself in process. Searching the twist of distorted passageways that never follow will and never heed chaos. And life answers every call with an abrupt disconnect.