She climbed the non-existent stairs and stood in the non-existent room. She missed a non-existent step. There she fell; there she died. Life passed inside, with a quiver of corruption, a gasp of despair. In the morning brought Sunday air but the clouds brought haze. The pancakes lay uneaten; the rest of the world asleep. The birds began to sing with her secret to keep. In a while it will all stop. There will be no breathe, no talk and in her eyes there will be no light, no wonder of how to miss a forgotten sight. She walked those steep hills while the sunset wept. The clouds rained fire and trees fought death. In that moment before she left they knew to know nothing. In that second; with no imagination, her eyes quite close, she was in a non-existent bed, dreaming non-existent dreams and in the end she cradled the truth to comfort the lies. In that non-existent room she quietly wept.