The day was over. Everyone got up to leave. But I barely noticed. I'd reached a zone where the house could have burned down around my ears without me feeling the slightest bit warm. I was alone in the room, the poppies – pink, red and pale blue had stopped swaying. I looked down at the words that were in the circle that I had drawn.
Replace the BBC. Pick up your news from an alternative viewpoint.
They could have been written by a complete stranger for all the sense they made to me. I'd also drawn a sketch of the window. Then:
Poppies – chalk soil – the cycle of a poppy's life?
The master was gone. Everyone was gone. I waited for the load of my feelings to stop shifting and settle back into place. It was time to go and I remembered, as I put on my coat, the last thing the master had said. With the help of the fortune teller, her deck of cards, we could set off on the next stage of the journey. Pre-destiny and conscious/sub-conscious choice...
The others were gone. It was time for me to do the same. But with this constant re-invention without resolution, where was I to go now?