The road passes above the path that leads past a fondness time.

Tracing her mind over fragments of thought, she imagines herself exiting herself; not entirely, though substantially, herself hurtling along a road towards a place to which she has never been—and this position must persist with a particular permanence, undoubtedly, as she has heretofore persisted without placement. She feels a rush through her hair, the dryness of a desert air blanching the skin of her face as she goes, tear ducts sealed shut by dust, the soft scent of lavender blushing her brow, antigenic pollen wisping within brushed winds, the light of day disappearing behind the pulsed line of an endless forest, and before long soft drops begin to rain upon an elusive plot.

“I am imagining things.” She shakes her head vigorously and a disturbance of specked flies lifts into the air lazily from nearby perches, looping stupidly, three or four of them, before each settles on something meaningless once more, wings tucked up neatly behind themselves, waiting without wonder. (Never “Why?” asks the fly.)

Her eyes remain closed, adhered by a crackling, and the dampness settles in; mold creeping from crevices, black spots grow angrily and expand into blankets, walls seeping with the moistened fragrances of sickened rot as she begins to sob.

There is a pocket at her waist, itself stitched into her dress like an afterthought: It begins and it dips, it angles in quickly and reverses course, up and then it comes to finality—at last. There is a gap between a beginning and an end, and this is where she pushes in the misplaced bits, memories stowed, fragments found lost on paths, those discarded pieces, tarnished trinkets which gleam, her dreams. She now removes them one by one from her pocket and places them on the ground around her, herself sitting there amidst them, a banished thing, counting her spoils, one by one, and so she goes.

There was a time when she ducked through gaps in fences for adventure, a time when she cared deeply for another one in particular. She is stained, marked, each moment a reflection. These experiences of a past flow into one another, they no longer hold definition—yet she remembers them, picks at them, senses each as a wound unhealed: Taxidermic memories stuffed plump with falsity, atrophied on a mantelpiece, their appearance but a suggestion of some long-lost and likely fictive reality.

She returns these things to her pocket and she does so without permission, not that there was any to be had. She sighs and wipes away the remnants of tears, dusty streaks, her hand reaching to retrieve a fragment of chalk from an old cigar box. (She knows its place without seeing it, for it shall always be there.)

Yearning to draw a picture on the wall nearest her, she twists herself from her seated position so that she is now on her knees, darned socks now dirty, and she begins to put together a scene using the chalk as her medium, her prison as a canvas, her unease as an easel. She draws herself drawing herself looking through a window on to a winding road, it leads away from here, crooked in its route, between trees and lies and doubts, and on to wherever it may go, her mind tracing over these remnants of thought as if she were with them, herself now nothing but a memory of herself as she hurtles along her own absence towards that place of which she shall never know.