I wrote this four months ago.
We see her in her unusually comfortable nook, in her midnight blue sheer tank top and denim shorts. We know this is her no-brainer getup. She takes a quick sip from her drink. She orders the same thing every single time, and we wonder why. Metaphorical representation. Bittersweet, she thinks to herself. Guilty pleasure. It echoes in her mind, again and again, and we can hear it. Her vibrations are easily read, and she is hardly perceptive of any external occurring, for she is too enthralled in the social-bearing phenomena projected in cyberspace, modeled to fit in the palm of her hand. She lifts her head every now and then and holds blank stares. She is not aware of our presence, for we do not exist. We are not a being, we are not a force. We are not a you and a me. We just are. And we see her. Because we know she feels exactly the same.
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