She sits on the toilet bowl and does not feel like budging. It feels oddly comfortable, hedged in with the world shut out. The seat is warm and dry. The dull light hovers overhead, casting shadows all around her, a reminder that the past is always in the present.
Someone comes in through the main door and walks in to the next cubicle. The shuffling of clothes, awkward pauses and grunting reminds her how ugly the human body is made to be. A small smile creeps onto her face. She insipidly wonders what's for dinner.
Weariness blots her thoughts out so she closes her eyes and let it wander out of the window, along the trees swaying by the road, to the birds roosting high, to the cars that flash by. A voice bounces across the corridor, jarring the retarded calm.
A sigh, and a ripple. She stands, and water flows. Looking back at the dimmed, wrinkled reflection in the toilet bowl, she can almost imagine a white rabbit, plunging down.
How is the past in the present?
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