so lost
She is a sight to see- barefoot, her dirty feet scuffed and swollen. Her oversized man's shirt trails only down to her exposed plump thighs and her tangled hair cascades down to her waist, thinning off into brittle frizz.
Ilse doesn't know who she is or what she is anymore… somewhere between an artist and a prostitute, a maiden and a whore. She is beautiful only to those who appreciate mournful grey eyes, pale skin, broad shoulders and wide set hips. Perhaps she will find someone to love her, to love Ilse and not this apparition that painters dream of erotically and her village is embarrassed to remember. Or maybe love is a fairytale, a false hope. You chase it through the woods, splashing through freezing creeks hoping to catch another glimpse of its shadow, never finding that eluding pixie.
Poor Moritz- that nervous wreck she has met at a crossroads. She, returning to the place of her fading childhood, and him, escaping it. Could she have saved Moritz from certain tragedy or was his saga inevitable? How could Ilse, barely sixteen herself and nothing more than a Bohemian skank have made any possible difference to this childhood friend?
Suicide is a knife left on the kitchen table. Someone, sometime, must put it back in its proper drawer and restore order, if grief, to the room.