The girl who can’t stop daydreaming has already been hit by half a dozen cars and bicycles, and for this reason, she’s a pedestrian menace, especially in a city like New York. But don’t worry, miraculously, the girl has always recovered from these run ins. Last week she daydreamed about sushi in the shape of dogs. This week, she’s daydreaming about her latest crush: some long-haired earth specimen with locks as curly as a packet of ramen noodles. Given her multiple casualties, it’s truly a shock that she’s never actually bumped into anyone she knows on the street. Her gaze can only be compared to a sleepwalking butterfly. Her chin is always tilted up, she’s not looking at you. She’s staring at the sky and watching the lunchers, who sit at the rooftop restaurant like a pack of city pigeons. She’s thinking about how being inside the edifice feels like wading through the belly of a whale, how it already feels as though summer is slipping through her fingers though it’s only May. She daydreams about possibilities and make-believe scenarios, sometimes involving you but always involving her, and while she dreams about the day, the day in turn dreams about her: you can tell by the way she makes a wish on a dandelion and the seeds dance around her hair like a mortal halo. Her dream journal is more detailed and up to date than her checkbook and her ideal vacation destination is Saturn. She probably couldn’t recount for you any names from the street signs downtown, but she could be the sole author of the North American Cloud almanac. A disco ball can mesmerize her for hours, an optical illusion, for centuries. Behind her back, they call her an airhead, they say she’s a space cadet, and maybe they’re right – the left hemisphere of her brain replays her favorite dreams on a loop while the right side feels like swimming inside a lava lamp. Once she was daydreaming about what it’d be like to fly without paying attention, of course, and walked straight into a manhole. I haven’t been able to reach her ever since.