You’ve just arrived in a swampy, dim town. As you look around, your gaze is met with shacks and cabins. It smells of rotted wood and wet moss. You duck and step into a tattered tent, illuminated by a series of candles suspended in the air. At the back of the tent, an old hag raises her head, “What brings you to this dingy town? she begins, then pauses to study your face—”Ah, it’s you. I’ve been expecting you. Sit,” she gestures at a cushion, “Tell me your story.” ((How do you respond?))
He sits down on the cushion and takes a deep breath.
"Well, the truth is, I'm a little lost, but it pleases me to hear that you were already aware of my coming."
He pauses, taking his time to formulate his next words as he look around the inside of the tent in amazement.
"My story you ask? My story is one that is ever unfolding. I go wherever my nose goes, and delight in whatever situations unfold."
It's like his attention is drifting to some place else, entering some hidden realm of joy within
"It is but a humble thread woven into the grand tapestry of existence. I am but a wanderer, traversing the pathways of this world in search of truth, beauty and some sprinkles of laughter along the way."
Suddenly he wakes up, shakes his head and says:
"But enough about me, who is it that I have the pleasure of meeting here before me?"
