The serrated edge of a brown smell. Curling questions of smoke unwind from the nape of her neck. She marches.
Suspension of disbelief spills through loosened nodes, viscous, flowing slowly, wrapping filaments of perception in a passive acceptance. Receptors crowded with incongruent data and billowing doubt are washed with improbable peace.
Proprioceptive test programs loop through familiar patterns, but the rest states short and fork into the fractal branches of open ended possibility. Marching, context.
The physical surety of her feet on pavement and her fingers running along the regular thrum of a stony wall offer a rhythmic counterpoint. Hands tremor, but fear is impossible.
Incongruence between the tactile and cognitive threads chafe and delaminate the braided sentience. Eight ribbons become sixteen, thirty two, sixty four...
Everything is equally probable now. Each filament asserts its own absolute truth. The self unravels and becomes a network reflecting the myriad possibilities suggested by her context. It is as it is. Until it isn't.