This is a station abstracted: to be positioned yet separated, a differencing, an isolation. To be amongst those participants is to feel nothing for them but a hollowness, a hole for a planting, a purpose, a potential, yet presently nothingness persists. This is the location for an abstraction, a place for something rather than another, a location for a growth.

Others have roots entwined within this meadow: nourishment comes from it, ability blossoms. She sits upon it, unaware of the fabric spreading beneath her, cognizant only of her distancing from something, that which refuses definition or name.

She feels a pull towards it, akin to a thirst, though she is unable to sink into it, unable to find purchase or plot. She lays on the ground amidst the shards and slithers in order to listen to it mutter. It seems to call to her as if mocking her, as if aware of its own denial. This is the station abstracted: her own witnessing of a slipping, this secondary place sliding beneath her perch upon another. She presses her ear to the ground and pretends to comprehend, though she hears little else other than the rushing and resting of those succeeding.

Her curiosity is underwhelming: she feels resigned to her position atop this meadow of multiplicity, her most cherished station now abstracted. She blows a kiss to them, to those who populate that place, a token of affection to those affected, an affectation ineffective, a trial suspended. She pulls herself up and away from it as she no longer trusts herself to have heard it: she never understood it, regardless. This is the station she knows, this abstraction, this curse, and therefore she chooses it: this place that she adores.