Julianne slept by the edge of the road, her dark hair cradled her and kept away flies. She’s been there a long time. Someone was supposed to have come by now to do something nice. The woodcutter passed by and gave her a nudge with his boot. His dog pissed on her arm. Then the rich and powerful industrialist noticed her, but found no advantage. The March Hare actually spent an hour or so talking to her, but he’s done the same thing to stones. The Prince doesn’t seem to travel this particular bit of highway.
Somebody should do something, put a blanket over her, call 911, figure out what she wants. She’s becoming a nuisance. What’s she waiting for? If she’s so bored, why doesn’t she do something about it? Pay her own way, make her own bed. Just stop that infernal whining. The arrogance of it all.
Slowly a crowd gathered. The peasants stood watching, far enough aside to avoid possible involvement. Large dark shapes, all of them, barely moving, stable (although according to the second law of thermodynamics, this organization will in due course become eroded). What does she want? There is a selective advantage to consciousness. It is likely that organisms without the ability to remove themselves from danger would not evolve the capacity to suffer.