Connie went for walks in the park, and in the woods that joined the park, and enjoyed the solitude and the mystery, kicked the brown leaves of autumn, and picked the primroses of spring. But it was all a dream; or rather it was like the simulacrum of reality. The oak leaves were to her like oak-leaves seen ruffling in a mirror, she herself was a figure somebody had read about, picking primroses that were only shadows or memories, or words. No substance to her or anything...no touch, no contact!
Connie often strolled through the park and the adjoining woods, finding solace and intrigue in her surroundings. She delighted in the seasonal changes, from kicking through autumn's brown leaves to gathering spring's primroses. However, this idyllic experience felt insubstantial, as if it were merely a figment of her imagination.
As she engaged with nature, Connie realized that the vibrant oak leaves appeared more like reflections in a mirror than real objects....
