No, you never sink through the night.
You never felt the languid ripples the wind sends forth as you breathe in the chilly air, the way they melt your skin and diffuse into it to make you one of them. You never bathed in the water of the night and take in the coldness of it.
The coldness which was, at the same time, familiar and homely.
A slow trance, like a dying ballerina doing her last pirouette. Her toes are weary of supporting her body weight, her hands falter, yet her legs were firm and did not give up. The last thread of strength waltzing out of her. Her pirouette comes to a stand still, she falls.
Gracefully like a breathless swan. And she sinks into the water.
Into the night we go.
