the glass wall is holding strong, the fog is unrelenting

I wonder who she is, in a vacuum. When devoid of a point of reference, my colleague's abrasive internet humor or my throwaway existential nothings.

What does she do when not tapping away at a keyboard in the library? What movies make her cry that she would never admit to? Does she dance in front of a mirror to songs in her head? Does she imagine little people running through the streets and fields like an obstacle course, when looking out the window of a moving train?

I wonder what personal meanings she ascribes to gestures she says are “just because”.

What she is one millisecond before someone taps her on the shoulder to ask a question. What opinions she chooses to replace with silences when someone's passionate attitude compels her to nod.

And I'm curious what she thinks, what kinds of images pass before her eyes as she falls asleep. What parts of her everyday performance dissolve into the dark when the lights go out and all that's left is white noise.