With eyes that have wandered over the dead bodies strewn on pavements, she now searches strangers' beds for her next meal. With ears that have heard the dull thuds that her father's fists would make on her mother's face as he beat at it as though he were a yogi enthralled in a trance, she now listens only to the sound of money. With a mouth that knows all too well the different tastes of hunger one would feel when the sun is self –conscious, when it harasses everyone in the street and when it hides in its mother's bosom, night, she now tastes only the sweat of other women's husbands.

As day becomes weary of the streets, dirty ravenous survival will knock gently at her door accosting her to come stand under the uninterested stare of night. Her existence like an incubus sits heavily on her thoughts threatening to break her brittle spine, and unable to cover her morbid soul she hovers out to rest her head in the murderous lap of salacious desires.

She, the prostitute, now lies asleep in my bed. Her naked soft body warm and still-every breath she takes is fragile. Once a week in room number 3360 she becomes the love of my life.