Her roll

It was damp, the sidewalk. Blue moon. The skates wouldn't, they just wouldn't. The roll, the roll was of toilet paper and the skates she had transfered to a rink. The paved hill was damp, as dark as it would have wants. She wasn't, she could. She could, always, a little, a further, more... The skates at the rink, sidewalk turned, going grey in the meilloring sun, as nothing ever occured, it's powers still stainingly fadingly empowering, a rock, a rink, and the questions, that was what she had at damp midday, because she could, skates on or not, always.

@ChrisSadhill