It is the perfect sort of day. Neither too warm nor too cold. The sunflowers wave with a light breeze and the green meadows beckon enticingly. You yourself are a young bohemian, perfectly formed, full of life, and with a thirst for adventure. Just the sort of day for being alive. You cannot remember leaving your house, or even waking up this morning, but somehow, here you sit in this meadow you have gone to so many times before, and in which you have spent so much of your young life. You consider such options as wandering about aimlessly, making moebius strip daisy chains, or taking a refreshing nap in the cool grass, when the sound of footsteps causes you to turn your head, and you see a man approaching. He has the head of a horse, and is garbed in a robe of swirling colors.

"Welcome." You say.

"Good day to you, Frances." He replies.

> If your name is Frances, go to 1.1

> If you name is not Frances, go to 2.1