Then she realized that the red carpets were actually wine-stained, dirty carpets. Her orange hair had mixed with the red and become sticky. Her lips were a bone-dry Sahara desert; the red carpets she had kissed were only a mirage.
She was on the ground, and a terrifying state formed as the floor whispered to her. Even though she could not comprehend what deciding truly meant, she knew that while remembering this story there were sequences that gave her pleasure. She was not insane; she could only grasp that the thing she was curious about was someone hidden with a dagger in this story — and it felt as if she would never be able to learn it.