It always comes back to this, the empty space, her place on
line, lost, when her attention got diverted, love getting in the middle of ambition,
when in the end she has neither love nor money. I feel the vacuum, in the space
where she puts so much hope, faith in, believing something without proof, a
spirit of something believed in, desperate, and yet blinks out like a candle when
the wrong breeze blows, the magician’s illusion, up in a puff of smoke. She
always comes back to the same place, unintended, as if the roulette wheel of
her life must always come up on double zero, forcing her to start again, built
up a new kitty from which she can once again gamble her future.
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