This was the nature of her tragedy. She had drunk vociferously from the chalice of sufferings and the anonymity induced, as a result, had freed her from the bondage of undeserved happiness. She had always longed for freedom or for love, she could not for the life of her decide. Both were her priced ideals, her heartaches, her soul's longings. Throughout her brief stay in this world of deceitful gains in an attempt to clutch at both, she returned emtyhanded, beaten, devastated and hopeless than ever before. The city that had given her a place to hide, a place to claim her own had also abandoned her like a mother who had had enough. Her family always moving, always on the hunt for freedom and love had moved on and she was left among the captive armies of the earth who snatched freedom and unmade love, who booked rebels for tyranny and lovers for fear of being hated. She had owing to her solitude had decided to drink, not wine, not the funky type they sell at home, neither the bartender's favourite nor the tavern's priced possession, the one they offer to wandering mystics. She had opted for her blood instead, honeyed by the sufferings at the hands of freedom and her undying desire to love and to be loved back.