road.

she comes home everyday.

through the same paths, the same root, the same turns, the same little local stores, that are so ugly, it rains depresion.

and it is the same feeling of helplessnes and lack, arid lack of glamour, and that it is almost pointless to enjoy what she is doing, because, the results, like everything, are the same.

same disappointment.

at 34, whatever dream she may have scraped, -and now, mind you, some odd 20 or so years later, she has completely forgotten what it even was, and is only left with its unidentified ashes- is absolutely gone, and dreams are mainly made to ease day to day mundane existence, gone.

and so, naturally, she takes the same root every day, coming home everyday, to the same husband who has become pestilence, the man who use to be the wide shouldered, sharp eyed dream, the distention, the man who, in the intoxicating effect of early maturity, would sit with her, and all their little soft pains would mend and morph into one another; has now, in actuality become, the pain.

now,  his wide, clark gabriel shoulders wither, his sharp eyes tilt, he comes worn down from paper work that numbs the mind, and cold hearted social interactions with colleges over terrible coffe, a couple of geniuses, rotting in the roots they take home, everyday.