And who will you call yours?

“What’s your name?” he asked above the roar of the music.

She leaned close and smiled. “My name is illusion ,” she leaned bit closer and whispered. “my name is dream or maybe a nightmare . My name is half written prose, or maybe an incomplete story”

He chuckled . She was drunk and silly, and so full of mystery. She grooved like a child yet had an aura that couldn’t be pierced through “I have no name” She whispered again ” I’m the soul of wanderers, I’m a mask of pretence.

He grabbed her by her wrist, running a thumb along the sensitive skin underneath. “Then let me call you mine for a dance or two.

” And Who will you call yours? “ she asked ” The one that you see? Or the one that I carry inside” And laughing out loud she faded into the mist…

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