Something about the way she was walking made her ponytail swing like a pendulum in its highest arch, or like an actual pony’s tail. And I stared after her, walking behind her, enthralled by that swing like her head was the hypnotist’s hand and her hair was the watch at the end of a long, blonde chain. I had just been in the corner store, waiting behind her with my orange juice, paper towels and lightbulbs, while she stood paying for her six pack of cheap beer and two packs of cigarettes, the fruity sweetness of last night’s alcohol fermenting the air around her pores. She was way too skinny, sickeningly alcoholic, tattooed with Chinese symbols on her neck. Her skin was yellow, her face was pale and her dull eyes looked lost in the daytime light. She was nothing to me in that corner store, nothing but an abused piece of trouble buying the food of her demise. We all have our demons — our own self destructions — and sometimes it is relieving to see so obviously written on the face, body and smell of somebody else a downfall more obvious than our own. And then… I follow her down my own street, a house or two back, and watch the beautiful symmetry of her swinging hair. I am enthralled. I am hypnotized. And I think I could so easily find my way to living without caring about anything at all.