“I see a tail wagging,” says the dog. “It swishes and swirls like the heads of corn in the field.”
“I see a block of grey,” says Veronica, “as night chases day from the window.”
“I hear a sound,” says the GM, “woof, woof, woof, woof; going on and on.”
“I see the ridges and folds in the fabric of my sweater,” says Matt. “With my head down, the faces elude me.”
“I see nothing,” says Andrew. “Absolutely nothing. I can neither see nor feel in this vortex. What the fuck! This isn´t metaphorical. This is actually some kind of vortex. Help! Help!”
“I feel the tail in my mouth,” says the dog. “I go round and round like the seasons: Autumn leaden slow with his trail of leaves turned to mulsh; then Winter, stripped to the roots and the brambles, all hop-headed and red-cheeked drowsy; in jumps Spring like a leaping lady with a corset scattering buds to the wind; and finally the hectic heady buzz of Summer electric like a bumblebee rebounding blissfully.”
“I can still hear that bloody dog,” says the GM.
“I can see this yoghurt from the supermarket is out of date,” says Veronica.
“I can see the error of my ways,” says Matt. “I was right after all but I am the better man so I will apologise.”
“For God´s sake,” says Rob, coming into the room. “Could you please stop wittering so we can get on with the adventure?”