There's certain liberal ironies to this thing called life. Without question, she'll muse wryly about it for a few days, feel the awkward?rollercoaster of emotion pounding upon her back — then it'll be another cycle of tiding her over for a few days more. "The weather's not the same every day, but rain's rain," she remarks to herself.

She sits, by herself, on some island sim. Not in the middle of nowhere, but it's certainly out there past the charted stretches of the mainland. The gridverse is getting mighty large nowadays, with half-a-thousand-somethin' sims and plots to spare. Bending her back down while crouching on some polygonal gray construct, she sighs to herself, sipping slowly from her bottle of Turquoise De-lite, and looks wistfully towards the horizon — an infinite gradient of one?shade of?blue fading into another. That's just the way it's perceived, not how it actually is, and damned are the fools who try to fly out there from this port, as they'll only get bounced back into the bounding box of the simits.

Laughing a bit nervously, a bit excitedly, she wraps one pale hand into the other, knitting them together?like an argyle scarf. She cocks her head to the side, sniffing the fresh sea breeze that wafts in. It's a little too crisp, and that?discomforts her. So?she stops. Tilting her head the other way, she notices that her Franimation Overrider?has somehow been kicked offline, so she boots?it up again, waiting for the?rich, pulsating skitterplot vector to cue in her motions.?A few blips in the timeline later, her movements become more graceful, angular, and feline. It only makes sense, as she is part cat, after all.

And part robot. Droid. Avatech. Whatever word you choose, it's going to point to some origin of mechanical means. Used to be more of a stigma against that in some circles, but in here, it might as well be the whole ten yards of bangers and mash. Regardless, the lithe female form sitting and staring at the sky can't help but sometimes wonder if she was programmed wrong. Sure, she can update herself periodically, but firmware only goes so far. And she's certainly not rampant (per se per se), but oh, it's like the girl with the curl, and she's had her moments. Putting the empty bottle back into her Inv and planning to recycle the prims, she muses: You can build a pyramid, but once you're up high, don't touch the damn foundation or the whole works will come sliding sloppily down, like?a bag of?crisps you've inadvertently but undeniably slammed your rear into?– and you might as well have never started in the first place.

She thinks about her old man. Her old man's old man. Her mothers. Her jaded love, her diversity of friends, and the times she's had here. She knows that all good things gotta come to an end, but 'tis better to have had them started up in the first place. Otherwise, how else would you know what good lay ahead? Cycling through an array of her favorite anecdotes, adages, and aphorisms,?she comes up with this:

"Lost time is never found again."
-Benjamin Franklin

Which brings us to regret. Or doesn't, because it's the kind of thought that flutters by as a leaflet might carelessly flap in the wind, and it won't come back. At least not for a little while, for this particular avatar just happens to be living in the moment, making a low sound somewhere between a squeak and a chirp, and not quite a sob. Choking back what might have been a tear, her weary face, traced with lines of the explorations before her and almost precognitively?pointing to those after, now wears a subtle smile.

The girl in the neon watermelon-themed clothes (and hair, may it do ya well to remember that!) lifts herself to her feet, gazes at the heavens above, and stares at her surroundings. If trees could talk. All 14,000-plus prims of FleaBilt-manufactured goodness, synthetic variants grander than this second nature's own, tower above the landscape. They?dwarf the dull gray track which runs thisaway to thataway, a loop. A loop that's already been broken and doesn't even know it yet.

…her smile gets wider.

Another day, another adventure.

……wider still.

The HUD above the viewport reminds her of the name of this location — Allow Life.

………even moreso!

Efficiently packaging the big-ass trees in a compact subspace on the asset server as to not be confused with common GREEFER KIN, she beams off, teleporting back to regions alien and familiar at the same time, knowing that she won't be alone.

And that happens to be one of those liberal ironies of this thing called life.

Second Life.