She had no control. ‘Control’ – the nature of it, was flawed, in her irrational mind, in her wild, unabashed existence; she wanted to die when she saw him, felt the honey softness of his skin, the gravelly tone of his voice. She could feel her waif of a soul, ribs showing through its translucent sheath, dying to climb with its last little ounce of strength, into the living world, for only to be closer to him would be nourishment like no other. She was obsessed with him. It was mean, how the world could present someone with someone desired so desperately who was so unreachable, so out of the boundary of her own sense of need versus the mere, ugly mundane nature of ‘wanting’.