The boot was shut. The door was slammed. The orange car left the deserted wayside right away. Ina, the motorist, was having a bad hair day; one could take her, particularly today, for a sloven. Presently, she allowed herself to be amused by the construction of her social identity.

There was a sense of relief in the putrid air circulating within the car. When she reached the Suicide Point, the sun and his soothing colours left the sky to introduce a glowering twilight. Goodbye, she said to him, and greeted the unkind nightfall that was devoid of stars to comfort the disconcerted heart.

The rock-strewn landscape below looked as bewitching as the neigbouring sea on a moonlit night. Solitary trees cast their towering shadows over the patch of light emanating from a timeworn lamp of the less-frequented highway. High above, birds in groups of seven or seventeen rushed, with a sense of urgency, to their shelter. The passing wind froze her, fleetingly. Winter must end soon, thought she.

The boot was opened and the body of her preoccupation was dragged towards the cracked railing and turned over.

Of all the places she had imagined, there was nowhere she could go. Standing in a chasm surrounded by imposing rocks, she now saw her possible realities merging with her limited fantasies.