Marina. Woman come from the sea, born in a clam shell. Still wet in his memory, still belonging more afloat than on dry land. In her own way of transcending everything, the manner in which she could levitate above any given situation, refusing to lend any feedback or reply.
Cloud-like in her passiveness. Damnit, answer me. Where were you last night! His only reply a slammed door, his hand caught in it in his unsuccessful attempt to pull her back, to uncoil the answers from the tangled web of her silence. But she always guarded her comings and goings with a silence made of the coldest steel. Her secrets veiled in shadow. His hand caught in a door, the echo of pain both physical and intangible.