She sat in the car, staring out the front window, seeing nothing. The hot air was blowing giving her face and throat and strange sensation. In an odd action that she did not even herself understand she pressed only her fingertips to the window next to her. The cold was shocking though you would not have been able to tell from her face. Lost in a deep though that somehow seemed not to be a thought at all, she sat, hand raised to meet the window, in complete silence. She could not explain the reason for this strange reflective mood she had suddenly adopted but none the less it was as present as anything else in the world, though invisible to all others around. No other person seemed able to understand her recently. Though nothing in her actions or words were out of character she seemed to think that no one in her life fully understood her as they once did. Or did they ever? Was it all just a fabrication? Or were there people in her life that understood her as plainly as a scholar would understand a text.
She did not have the answers to these questions, though she wished desperately that she did. So, with no other way of voicing these thoughts or feelings she remained as she was, unmoving, pensive, fingers still pressed to the window.
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