She woke up dreaming of a lake. Someone was screaming for ice cream and wanted to bake a cake. She didn't know what to make of it all and went back to sleep.
Later that morning she woke again and walked to the park on a lark. It was no longer dark, so she left her mark on the grass and hauled ass out of there.
Just before noon she bought a spittoon that had once belonged to a saloon owner. She made note of the shop and promised herself she'd return here soon, then walked back outside and marveled that the moon was still visible this late.
She had soup for lunch but felt something crunch, which didn't seem right. In the end it was nothing, but very few words rhyme with “lunch,” which also doesn't seem right.
On the bright side, there was still a bright side. It was like that old album Pink Floyd never recorded, Bright Side of the Moon. It was less dark than the one they ended up making.
In truth, she found the entire affair rather silly, though she couldn't say why. One doesn't simply stroll through life thinking of such arcane matters.
But there's no accounting for taste, and she still wanted ice cream or maybe a dip in a cool stream, or a trip to the moon for some cheese if you please. It was early afternoon by now and how she longed to be anywhere but there, where she wouldn't care if people decided to stare at her bare shoulders or the tear in her jeans that she hadn't noticed.
She kept walking while some were talking and others squawking as the ferries were docking and one guy was clocking another, knocking him to the ground.
She wept, then slept.