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At certain points in her life, Alice grew accustomed to existance. She knew it like few others would ever know, and was content in knowing so. On some days the windows served as her eyes, and all she knew was what had passed her by. She fondly remembered a road, but not any cars, a tree, but no leaves, and only some grass. Others days were represented not by the passing of time - for time lost all meaning every so often - but by the intracacies of life, of thought. One didn't lead to another in linear fashion; they flowered and withered in different streams simutanously but their smell always seemed to linger. Every so often there would come a day where one wasn't expected to get up; on such days, Alice found solace in looking through windows.