It’s night, and the soft satin sheen of the sky spills over me in a sombre silence. It’s late. And very, very quiet. The soft pitter-patter of feet alert me to something other than myself and my musings. I turn, and there she is. A beauty of Byronic verse personified, of cloudless climes and starry skies indeed. I gaze at her, wisps of moonlight sighing down from heaven clothe her in a silvery glow unmatched by mortal design. I know her. Very well do I remember the subtle contours of her face, the lips slightly open as if in surprise, the dark velvet hair trembling carelessly past her shoulders, and the eyes, almost tear-stained, questing and questioning for answers she’ll never find.
There’s something about crossroads that I can never quite figure out. It seems as if at each crossroad we too become, in a way, prophets, foretelling the future and seeing down paths that only we are privy to. It doesn’t matter who we are with, we are the only ones that can see down the path that we want to take.