Our explorer has taken a hiatus, she is tired and as she peers across the street, he seems tired as well. She puts on her best coat and slips her feet into some cherry red rain boots. The moment she steps outside, she feels the cold tingle in her bones and her hair sashays as the wind hits her with a warm whisper asking again, “Hey. Are you there?” Flipping your hair in A Day can take you somewhere.
Don’t worry, just keep it as it is, she said. She says these types of things happen to her often, she must partially remain motivated to live and she must secondly rid herself from the despair of The Need. I need my comb, where is it? She reached into her purse, not the one from Vestiaire, but a second-hand Coach made of well-used garbage beige calfskin tin.
A desperate voice in her head urges, “These are the lines, the shapes, the colors, the values, the forms and the textures. There is no SPACE.” Repenting and refusing, Daisy shakes her head vigorously and steps into an oily pink puddle seeing only her reflection for a brief second in time.
“Come to the spot, dabble in delight, peruse my space with wonder and might; question clients A, C and J. Find a way to see, see connections and see separations. Come from away, come from near, be the bearer of untimely cheer.” – The Pause and the solemn inquirer of Where
And with that, Alice from Wonderland appears, presenting Daisy with another conundrum, this time more real: “Where can you gather your answers from? Is it online, has it been written by another? When the answers come, make it right, make it right, make it right.” She takes off in a haste, not really caring about her hair and for some reason this time, she is riding an umbrella as if it were from Life Space.
Hmm. That was somehow puzzling. But onto the next block, still in the rain, the sky still bleak, wet, gray. Daisy just can’t seem to pull up her head. She envisions red and yellow amongst oily pink and purple.
“Why is this taking forever?”, “What has become of the perspective?”
It is all askew and small, but still very vast. Very vast? I used to dream in this perspective, really…well…I was awake, burning my eyeballs trying to fall asleep.
“Somehow, there has been someone toying with this section.”
Elevententeen was just that, a constant slideshow of places that required definition.
There was no consistency or realness.
There was so much dismay.
Her entourage had miniature plastic smiles plastered to their faces and there was still that nagging colour red pinned to each user like a little umbrella badge stitched with tiny banana-shaped thread.
Chona has nowhere to go, although her urge to run, to run uphill…is strong.