isn't it lovely all alone, heart made of glass, my mind of stone
The night is warm and clear, as most summer nights are. She is learning to appreciate things like this, things that she had not otherwise noticed. Such as the way the breeze is soft when it runs its fingers through her mane, and is not at all sharp and biting the way it could be in the winter. She is learning that in the summer the meadow is more active at night, likely because during the day it was too hot, while in the winter the nights were too cold. It is a strange thing, to be so affected by the weather. Something she is not used to, just one of many things she had to learn to accept.
She still prefers the solitude, though. She liked to watch and observe from a distant knoll, sometimes close enough to listen, sometimes not. She has had enough interactions now to know that they are not all bad, but they can still be exhausting. It is tiring to pretend to care and to feel. It is tiring carry on a conversation when she rarely knows what to say, and no one seems to know how to take her. She has learned to recognize their confused looks and flickers of surprise; a sure sign that she has reacted to something incorrectly.
Tonight, it is just her and the stars.
The grass is not quite knee-high where she stands, but it bends and sways in response to the wind like the surface of water might. It ripples around her stark white legs, and she glows similarly to the moon and the stars above, bright against a velvet sky. Her eyes are looking up, concentrating on the several orbs of light she has brought down. She moves them, shifts them around to make constellations, some of them easily recognizable, some of them of her own creation. She is, as always, lost in her own world, in a world that is nothing like this one, and she does not notice if anyone is watching her.
