Trappers is we by the works of hands

[It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood, and everything is peaceful and quiet until the front door of 773 Bunker Street busts open and out runs some lady who stumbles and falls to her knees on the front lawn. Her long, dark hair is frazzled, as if she has been tearing at it, her clothes are also disheveled with several buttons missing. She has an almost desperate look in her eyes, which are darting from side to side as she tries to take in her surroundings.]

What hell is this? Who has trappers me in this wretched shell of flesh? I feels nothing from the grass and the limbs of the tree… I am deaf and numb!

[She grasps at the perfectly manicured lawn in disgust.]

I see now… this is my punishment! I am failed the Woodsie Lord and made to suffer evermore! Suffer evermore!

[She studies the grass she’s plucked in her hands, then slowly lets it fall to the ground.]

So be it, then. I have earned this. I will bear it.

[And as she kneels on the lawn she begins to smooth out her hair and clothes, as if nothing had happened.]