[open] for when the wolves are silent; any

[Katarina]

k a t a r i n a Hey megalomaniac You're no Jesus Yeah, you're no fucking Elvis Wash your hands clean of yourself baby Maniac, step down, step down Step down The woman stands against a silver blanket landscape, snow forming a thin crust that crinkles and cracks beneath many hooves, but in this late hour there is nothing but silence and the sounds of her own heartbeat. The shine of the moon gazes lovingly upon the barren land, watching ceaselessly and keeping time with the tick of the seconds before the sun chased her away. Katarina is a vision of  dangerously feminine form, a finely curved hip with taunt barrel, dressed in soft clinging black velvet. She is a shadow across the placid white world, the remaining firs standing tall with peaked heads full of too many devastation and rebirths. Katarina regards them with a silent understand for there were an eternity of memories inside her pretty Friesianic head. Beqana had been a different world so long go (or had it been she?) Katarina knows she has this lifetime and possibly the next to contemplate decisions of a life that has so far been well spent. Kat had been raised by a loving mother and father (at least towards her) they enriched her with independence and strength in her own self. The dark girl, learning much, had grown to rely on no one for others had the potential to hurt you, exploit your weakness, when you allowed them too close. So she built her wall, brick by brick, to keep the outside world just far enough for her to observe and study. But on this day, in the winter of a deconstructed Beqanna, she waits nearly knee deep in powdered snow, waiting to see who came to collect her.