Another excerpt (I cannot write chronologically). It is not in second person. Again, this is fictional — the only thing from my life here is the fact that my bedroom walls are made of stucco applied by my grandmother in the mid-70s — but they were originally a garish purple, not blue. In any case, I know what they feel like to the touch.

>She felt surrounded by waves, deep blue waves which
>did not resemble any kind of blue water
>she had ever seen before.
>But what matter. They were waves of stucco, painted an
>intense, luminescent blue, like a rippling
>pool of water lit by lights from deep below.
>These waves swirled around the room and coated surface
>like licks of peanut butter. Not light
>and airy, and certainly not something she could swim
>in. But she could feel like she was
>swimming in that room.
>Touching the walls, eyes closed, she could feel the
>texture. The smooth smears of dried stucco,
>the round bumps and sharp ridges, and the cracks that inevitably
>formed in an amateur stucco job from the
>late 1970s.
>Yes, if she could ignore the cracks then she could
>pretend they were not mere bedroom walls.
>She could, instead, project onto these surfaces the
>fantasy of a sea unlike any that could ever
>exist, save in her mind.
>And upon that sea were her many, many maps — National Geographic maps, fantasy fiction maps, historical maps — of worlds
>real and of worlds beyond the real.
>These were her projections.
>This was the frame of her chosen world.
>She could venture beyond the room and into the rest of
>the house if need be, but the doorstep was
>where she stopped.
>She had not left the house, physically, in three years
>or so.
>(There’s a technical term, if you want to get
>clinical. I don’t).

>But she could say she had been all over her world, and
>had traveled far, if only vicariously, along
>the waves of imagination.
>And very few ever entered *that* world.