...take me away to a shore of flat stale champagne water rushing to embrace clear sparkling silver sand dunes climaxing in a flurry of audible murmurs and gossiping giggles that wake the old men in their straw huts from their own vivid dreams of impossibly blue water and yellow sand...
...and the party people fly like they swim desperately for family picnic pics on a random level of some unannounced hanging gardens of wild untamed rainforests full of hunters hunting for their prey's bodies and prey praying for their hunters' souls...
...to a wide expanse of windy indigo blue plains that stretch so far to meet the challenge of a citrus orange sky with abundant clouds the shape of puffy lips descending to fumigate all fiscal thoughts of those who look up in contemplation...
...where the practical pigs administer their own eggs and the handy horses their own milk so the farmboy can lay on that silky indigo grass and nonchalantly chew on a stalk of tasteless wheat while tucking his sweetheart's hair behind her tickled ears...
...to a mountain forest maternity ward of fertile ferns that somewhere coo nighttime lullabies to babies in their nests and elsewhere shed their golden yellow leaves onto the velvet violet earth below as offering to bury pasts both remembered and forgotten accordingly...
...and where whole bustling metropolises cease and desist in order to visit the sick old lady on her creaky deathbed and each recite a chapter of her lifelong achievements such as raising dogs who can roll over and tending a garden of treehouses sprawled with off-white misspelled exclamations...
...to where a tired dying crimson red supergiant appreciates every single precious moment it has left before it takes down millions of lives along with it and sets each day to rest for some three or so jade green followers that illuminate those ignorant and remind those who forget by choice...
...during a golden age of not nothing, nor everything, but just something, anything...
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