This is a world made up of nostalgia and wishful thinking.
It is built upon sand, on the shores of the waters of time. Seagull cries hover in the salt-scented air, like the calls of a lover from the other side of the Milky Way, and they leave you breathless just by listening. It is built upon rock, one stone at a time, piled high to form a castle. Ivy vines creep across the walls, and a stray wind picks them up and brushes them against your hair, and it makes you wonder if it was meant to be a caress. It is built upon earth, rich earth, with water flowing deep beneath, a source of life which the trees have reached with their ancient roots and have grown strong by. The sunlight is warm, and you can sleep here, in the damp mystic light of a world forgotten.
It cannot be touched.
You may listen, you may feel, you may see. You may reach out a hand towards the surface of the pond. But touch it - and the world beneath disappears.
Under the streetlights and a faint sliver of a clouded moon, a child crouches beside a puddle. A car has just run through it, and the reflection in the puddle is shuddering, scattered in the ripples.
The dancing speckles of lights grow larger.
They begin to reassemble. The pieces touch, change places, join together.
In a minute, the waters are calm.
The child smiles at the image of a bright noonday sun on the ground. All of a sudden, it's warm here.
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