her days end at two am. even then she fidgets restlessly for infinite minutes as the day's memories seep in her bed. mr. sandman is tardy again. hands clasped in silent prayer, she whispers her cluttered messages to god. she finds herself saying less and less. and at times just because she knows she can, she recites the words in another language...

“venga a nosotros tu reino, hagase tu voluntad en la tierra como en el cielo. da nos hoy nuestro pan de cada dia y perdona nuestras ofensas . . . ”

would god be amused? she doesn’t think so. because even in her native language she has forgotten the meaning of each phrase. perhaps the truth is written in her old theology handouts, hidden somewhere in the dusty piles of college books and papers. but this is not the right time to dig up lost wisdom from the university of blue and white. tonight, her mind plays dreams that are forgotten in the morning.

her days start at the 26th time the 5-minute snooze alarm goes off in tired beeps. this day she wakes up to one of the thousand repeated mornings--the stretching out of bed, the scratching of eyes, the dragging of her body out of the bed, the pouring of cold water over her groggy head, the donning of the first clothes she picks from the cabinet, then the putting of color on her cheeks. pink blush goes well with a gray face.

before she steps out into the sunshine, she takes one final look into the mirror. and there, a stranger stares back--a girl who borrows the face of indifference.