At the house, she liked to cook creamy mushroom pasta.
And today she cooked a feast of mushrooms, sautéed with garlic and chilli. Last night, she and friends shared a meal of mushrooms.
She loved the mushrooms. The taste, the smell, the feeling.
So did everyone else. They loved them so much that they kept on talking about it. They kept wanting to talk to her. But she'd had enough of talking. She wanted to sit, lie, stand and watch. And all the people kept on getting in her way.
She tried to escape to the mountain, the one she watched through the canvas. The river was flowing, and it was beautiful. But the people got in the way. The puppets moved to the music that didn't match, and the man's face laughed in the fire light. Laughing and laughing. Meanwhile, Philoctetes stood nearby.
She decided she'd had enough, and left. She didn't know where to go, but her feet took her to the train.
On the train, she gazed out the windows at the beautiful sights. But these other people, strangers, kept on getting in her way. Talking. Pushing. Punching...then the punch evolved into a strangle hold. The carriage went silent.
She watched a girl sitting alone, watching the fight. She had dark, sunken eyes and dry lips. It was her reflection.
She wondered why these boys were distracting her from the beautiful night and sights.
Then, the fighters dispersed. They exited the train.
The patterns on the walls returned, as did the mellow feeling of content.
But where to go? Instinct said 'nature', but the cold wind pushed her home.
Strolling through empty streets. Shadows, rain, trees.
The house was dark...and quiet. She rolled up in her bed, warm and safe.
There, she went swimming through her painting with Trentemoller. And woke up.