Silvery hair hangs short and curled antlers stand tall on the person's head. They run wildly through the twisted streets, avoiding every pedestrian and lamppost. A chaotic game of tag in the most anarchic city. The streets change when one forgets to watch them, and the iron only stays the same as long as one remembers the shapes.

The person, breathless and tired, stops running outside a small, dilapidated building. It's so old that no one could tell what it used to be. Maybe a bookstore, maybe a farmer's market, maybe a house. They decide to hide inside. Technically, the rules of tag mean that they shouldn't hide from 'it,' but their legs feel wobbly from the sustained sprint across town.

The boy who's 'it' comes around the street corner a couple blocks down. Whoops. They dart inside the abandoned building and shut the door. Safe at last, they gather their purple cloak around them and sit down next to--probably a fireplace?--and doodle in the dust. Their fingers brushed against something warm and smooth and sturdy. They unearthed it. Ashes cascaded off the skull of a stag. Startling the person, it spoke.

"Anyone who is remembered is remembered for a reason, and anyone who's forgotten is forgotten for a reason."

A girl dances alone in a meadow swathed in pink milkweed flowers and dusty green grasses. She laughs, carefree. Knowing she'll have to return soon, she makes the most of the time she has to stay here.

Sun shining brightly, the weather is perfect. Nice and warm with a nice breeze to ward off the heat. A few clouds for cloud watching. The grass pliable from recent rain. Looking for anything to take home as a souvenir, the girl searches the overgrown dirt for some small yet meaningful object. Her golden-blond hair just short enough not to get in the way, she kneels on the ground. 

At last, she finds a small scrap of cloth. She dusts it off and tucks it into her pocket. Just in time, too, as after the cloth is safe, the colors of the landscape blur and the girl appears back in her bedroom. She pulls out the scrap of cloth. On the reverse side are the words

"To fly is to lose all your tethers." 

Sifting through rows and rows of clothing, someone searches a thrift store for the perfect T-shirt. The lifeless overhead lighting can't diminish the sparkle of faer deep brown hair and amber eyes. Never losing hope, fae brushes aside piece after piece of fabric. Grinning delightedly, fae holds a blue and pink striped shirt aloft. Fae skips over to the checkout counter and hands over a five-dollar bill. 

The cashier smiles and makes change. Fae takes back faer new item and smiles in return. Leaving the store, fae cradles the shirt in faer arms. Fae looks at the reciept. The cashier has written on the back

"Magic comes from gaps in the plot of reality."

Hmmm, CAPTCHA says oyayi (Oh! Yay me!)? who knows. 

Do you mean in real life like a realistic setting and appearance? Because I don't actually know you in real life?

Unless IRL commonly means something else for picturings that I don't know about?

An explanation would be appreciated. 

A girl knits in her bedroom. She loops the green yarn over the needle and pulls it through. Her white blong hair is soft and dulled under the yellow overhead light. Becoming tired of the silence, she sets down her project to play a CD with her favorite album. She resumes knitting.

Tapping her finger on the wooden needle, she keeps in time with the song. She closes her pale pink eyes and pauses her project again, lost in the music. Suddenly, the CD player stops. The girl opens her eyes and reaches over to hit it once or twice.

Nothing happens, so she goes back to knitting, vaguely frustrated. And then the device starts up again.

"Silence is a dimension all its own."