A woman sits in the window of a coffee shop, gazing reflectively outward while looking pensively within. Her dreams go up like prayer flags.
Outside the coffee shop where the woman sits thinking, a motorized wheel chair, bedecked with prayer flags, sits abandonned. Perhaps it's the woman's chair and her long-standing prayers have been answered. Maybe she's not yet ready to walk away from that former identity and those familiar boundaries.
Down at the village dump, an old typewriter lies abandonned. What poems, letters to the editor, resumés, love letters, notices of resignation, unpublished novels and brilliant essays did it help create before all the ideas and ideals became outmoded?
Did the passion that went into forming all those words to describe the indescribable burn itself out? Did the writer move on, move out, move up to realize his long-held prayer of being recognized, or simply walk away from that dream and never look back?
When one dream is fulfilled or a prayer granted, how many others rush in to take its place?