disquisition on authorial intent

upon walking outside I see a girl descending the stairs. old and made of stone, long black railings trail at the sides. i'm talking about the stairs here, not the girl. (yeah, thank god? right? I mean, if I described the girl as "old and made of stone" then I guess I'd be describing, what, the crypt keeper's prostate? one of medusa's victims? and why, you ask, would long black railings be included in such a description? don't ask, man. don't. ask.)

anyway, flanking the stairs are bushes. most are green but some have flowers. the girl has white headphones in her ears; she's wearing sandals, and she's pirouetting. no, she's actually doing the cha-cha. it's definitely not the robot. or perhaps it's that 70's dance move in which the dancer clasps his hand over his nose and puts his other in the air and kind of waves, and his legs become jelly as he goes down and garners some perverse and absolute pleasure from drowning. oh, the 70's. your sense of irony is lost on me. my bad, dude. sorry. is "dude" an 80's thing? or a late-90's thing? does it matter?

all I know is this: I walk out the door and I see a girl descending the stairs. I think she's dancing. but really, she isn't. she's just trying her best to avoid some whirring, maddening, and relentless buzzing thing. she's really just afraid of bees.