She spins the spoon in her coffee, realizing how much time has passed. Realizing some dreams aren’t meant to last. They are swallowed into the abyss of the past, but remain deeply ingrained in our unconscious. Nothing can erase what has been done. No therapy, no medication, and no change of location. It will always make a return, into the world of dreams that turn into nightmares. Where the devil grabs at her feet, as all the angels swarm around him, and he finally admits defeat. Flashbacks, palpitations, and memories compete, for a chance to regain her face splattered on the concrete. But she eats the dirt now, becoming particles of dust, then breathed into the moonlit sky; they ask why? Why she always runs without saying goodbye? Why in moments of bliss, there is still fear in her eyes? How does she land on a bed of moss with all the cliffs around? Why she is thrown but never falls down? They should really ask why her voice never makes a sound? Who stole part of her sun that will never be found? What had been done to make it so hard to trust anyone?