She sits in a cold room, her fingers clacking noisily away at the keyboard, filling the stiff air with stymying sound. Her eyes are used to the light, her soul is tearing away. She keeps a lock on it, so it does not fly away from her body, so that it does not leave her here; breathless.
Her tongue flicks out over her chapped lips, like a momentary flood in a dry, cracking desert. Her eyes move silently over the screen, reflecting the glare of her corpse-like stare.
She knows that she is always alone. No blinking computerized message that tells of fortune and love can tell her otherwise. She has learned that no matter how much they tell her she is beautiful, intelligent, lovely...they are always lying. Oh, of course there are exceptions. Rarely there are souls that speak truths, but even then, they traipse off to polite courtesies. Mostly she knows because she has returned the gesture, making mock comments about how wonderful they are and that she admires them highly. And, again, there have been exceptions to the rule, where she, herself, is telling the truth or she simply tones down her compliments to acknowledgements.
So, she thinks, how can I know which are telling the truth and which are just returning the favor?
This, the plight, which no one, but herself, can assuage.