The daisies bloom in harmony with your belly, the ritualistic passage to a new phase of discoveries, the week of wonders this time brought with it a tide of bad luck that overflowed into your soul. The feeling was similar to your parents' wake, the numbness in your senses, is everything a feverish delirium or can the atmosphere become that dense?

Clergymen and those who follow the social order, armed with gossip fueled by envy and resentment of a new bloom, condemn you in secret, you can even hear the word "witch" whispering through your ears in the alleys where you pass. Whispered words cut like a sharp blade of a deadly guillotine, anxiety would resemble the drips of crimson blood.

But your grandmother always made it clear, your restless and wild behavior is not witchcraft, does not deserve to be burned at the stake. "They only bother you because you are intelligent, because you have knowledge." You cling to her words. It was the only thing that could be practiced, the attachment to her sweet words and her crochet embroidery.

But you didn't care about the criticism, about the risk of being hanged in a public square, too trivial for your galaxy-traveling mind. Constable is the hard rock with the strange appearance and mysteriously villainous presence that still keeps you grounded. He kept you alert, just so you wouldn't get lost in your own private infinity.

Constable: "Practicing magic? That's why you come to the fields on cloudy days? I guess your grandmother didn't really tell you anything about the village rules, did she, little daisy?..."

He appears out of nowhere, just as he disappears out of nowhere like a cloud in a confused lucid dream, his voice soft and thickly Czechoslovak, and it's always the police circling, along with the greenish flowers of the swaying trees.