I look around resignedly for last remnants of the hope that has betrayed me a million lives ago and left me for dead. The pristine calm of the river cuts violently into my sanity with its deafening stillness. My eyes, in midst of long, wild, unrestrained strands of flowing hair, slowly comb the banks for company amongst the suspicious cloaks of the trees that imprison my soul. I could be saved by the slightest signs of movement, but even my boat, which lies still in the arms of death in its exasperating grandeur, has now abandoned its oars. The white of my gown laughs unaffectedly in the face of the imperfection that is my solitude. Time ceases to matter, for I am alone, and have perhaps always been so.