[ In the relative quiet, in the stillness, she doesn't see anything. No shadows, no phantoms, not yet. The only noises are the blob's humming and Rhy's faint voice. She glances at the arm of her chair, at the broken glass of the empty vodka bottle. ]

It let me make a chair, and a little table, and some vodka. Maybe I could make some bread or somethin'. Everythin' else is broken or wrong for me too, anythin' that I could use to get somewhere. Anywhere. Even just shoes have holes in the bottoms.

[ She's not sure exactly how the distinction is being made -- ladders and ropes and shoes all appear to be verboten, but whatever's happening, she's allowed to drink through it. (It also probably says something about her that she knows she can make vodka, but not whether she can make bread.)

Squinting, she looks from side to side, for anything that indicates any kind of passage of time, but there's nothing except for the things she's caused. The broken glass, footprints, various broken manifestations. There hasn't even been a breeze to blow sand or dirt onto everything else. ]

I don't know. There's no -- the sun doesn't change. Clouds don't move. I think it's been a while, but I really can't tell for sure. You?