From the suffocating warmth of the crowded metro, she walks with a vague sense of momentary purpose towards the escalators that perforce augment her as an inert object out onto the threshold of the whistling cold wind. The gust of wind that greets her threatens to send her hair into a disarray. She flips them aside with a jerk but they strike back with an equal and opposite force covering half of her face trying to block her vision. She takes her hands out of her jacket pockets and shoves them behind her ears where they lie confused like a child who doesn't know what he is being punished for. She folds her arms on her chest and grips herself tightly, as if her body will drop lifeless if she were to let go. Like the metal ball in a pinball machine, her surroundings and her routine carry her mechanically, sometimes aggressively launching her aboard, at other times she just falls limp and is sucked down the vacuum into an abyss. She hears, sees, responds, as best as she can, but doesnt register the ambience around her. She is somewhere far off no matter where she is. The cold wind falls disappointedly on her insufficiently clad body. Unable to draw even a sympathetic shiver from her numb limbs, it coos away spiralling up rustling wry trees.
But she keeps rolling on, waiting for a push, a jerk that might send her shooting up like the metal ball under the glass surface of the arcade game of life, only to be dropped down again, and to be thrust back up again and drop again and up again...
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