This is the girl in the red dress who took the blue pill wondering if she has hit an all-time information overload. The download is complete. The deed has been done. The air swirls with cigarette smoke and the figures are obscured but it is evident that the players squatting at this chess board are the same as those previously encountered. She coughs, she sits, she orders a martini, dry, with blue cheese olives because when there isn't time to be particular, why shouldn't she be particular? She has dignity, after all, beneath the swaying lights, the coughing and the sounds of freight trains rumbling over the tracks.
Or are they?
The voices compete with one another for the scant oxygen in the room. They seem to be uttering the same words, but with differing vocabularies. Some are smarter than others. Some just like to show off. Some have accents and are sickly with phlegm. Some have been at the party for too long that they forgot about the chess game.
She makes her move, takes one sip of her drink and leaves, squeezing both sides of her head. Whether to keep her thoughts intact or to keep out others' voices isn't clear, even to her, but she has to run, to move to escape. She breaks a heel. She rips her stockings. She has started to discover the depths of this rabbit hole and where she sees darkness, others see desperation and empty buildings.
This is the girl in the red dress who likes to read, but has no time for she is either transporting herself somewhere else, or trying to squeeze each moment into something that it is not. A moment passes, after all. But when there are finite number of moments left, and only a certain amount of moves she can make, it is wise to stretch this non-linearity of time.
Or is it?