«Is there a party called the Balance, I would vote for them, she pondered, dipping her toe into the minor and cooling carp-pond, in the afternoon heat.
Like for the opposite lookalikes; the ones that think they are opposing each other, but remains barely of the same, that would represent the flexible voters that diverges back and forward, inbetween to create democratic balance and harmony, could this be it?
Afternoon-talking through the garden-walk among the golden leaf trees in the autumn, still being green of spring.
Broken English is a poetic universe of its own, she recognized, half dreaming, half awake, when holding hands with her little imaginative Peter Pan of the forest, a Thinkerbell of the woods, she was singing along taking photos with her Olympus, selfies in a sort of staged glimps of a narcissus-shaddow flotaing in green´ish sunlight towards the watersurface.
Hello darling, are you home, yes here I am, they both replied, each being engaged in devoted committance.»
- Sugarplum Flowpow, p. 21