She rubs her neck, forward and back, in a diner booth as the clock only moves forward as she awaits an existence that will never meet with her own.

 She stares at her plate waiting for any movement to avert her eyes, whispering “Real is perception” in three-minute increments.

She sits under a flickering incandescent light source sifting, forward and back, through the visual snow that pretends the existence is now present with her own.

^ ^““>  > <”“”< ^

The kind of person who walks down the stairs after you tell them not to