Through the slits of her beady eyes, she sees a cock transform into a tree, and then a sleeping dog morph into a leaping fox. The fox is leaping over the moon, or could it be a lone pebble on a sandy beach? And is it really a fox, or instead a magpie flapping its wings in the parking lot of some supermarket late one Friday night in the dead of winter? It’s none of these things, and it’s all of these things. Bringing her hand to her mouth, she touches her lip and winces. It hurts and is still bleeding, although the flow of blood seems to be coming to an end. To numb the physical pain and the emotional despair of seeing her favourite dress ruined, she grabs a fresh can of beer and drains the nectar so that the subsequent burp is loud enough to halt the chatter of those in the studio spaces either side of her. Focusing on the canvas again, she catches sight of the image of a flowering vulva. Spread wide like a supernova, it reminds her of the Eye of Sauron, the evil dude from The Lord of the Rings. Gazing at it open-mouthed, the brush in her hand shakes, and for a moment, she thinks she’s going to attack the canvas with paint. She doesn’t do it, though. The moment isn’t quite right. She has the feeling, that’s for sure, but the white rabbit she seeks has yet to make an appearance. Perhaps it’s hiding in the folds of the pussy that throbs and pulsates among the blood splatter, or maybe it’s waiting to eat the spider hanging from a string that’s threatening to drip from the canvas to the floor. Looking down at her feet, she wiggles her paint-smeared toes. Although the canvas is a hive of sexual conflict—a dance of existential wonders and woes—she is still but a child, and little things such as these will always distract her.