Stace knows what's behind the forbidden door. Stace knows what's at the top of the tower. Stace knows what happens at the end. The world is cruel and unforgiving.
That's why Stace eats chips.
It's a windy day and the beachfront outside the modest town of Settlement-on-Sea is deserted, save for the odd bothersome seagull. Stace drinks in the world and the ocean, her golden hair billowing, chewing her greying potato-based side dish. The little wooden fork leaves a foul taste in her cheeks, reminding of the long supply chain between forest and tongue. She is happy.
Stace is very particular about her chips. She's not one for vinegar—the acid too acrid for her palette—and most of the time she forgoes even ketchup. A little salt is often required, especially in this sort of location. The perfect chip for Stace is not quite a chipshop chunk and not quite a maccydees wisp. But she doesn't mind too much. The point isn't perfection. The point is to spend her time eating chips.
It's all she does these days, really. The band she manages want to try again at making a movie, but she still thinks they'd be happier just enjoying life rather than trying to make meaning. It's a miracle they're alive. Don't make it complicated.