This shall be.

She opened her eyes this morning, remembering the dreams of last night, of things, with a man she was supposed to meet sometime christmas last year. Perhaps they will never meet, but this i recall...a feeling of...how, this is the begining of the rest of her life. Everyday for the next  hundred days, the thought of a male figure imprinted in her thoughts periodically, between every chord change, every sip of drink, every corner turned, every glance through the eyes in the crowd, every drag of the slowest burning cigarette. He will not feel a thing, not a gesture, no premonition, empty of signs of being in someone's thoughts approximately every other twenty minutes of the day, nor twitching of the left brow. Nothing left.