The grass tickles my feet and I look up, no, not up, around me, at the indigo sky. I can smell the rain here, the heat of the day has melted in to the dirt. There is no end to these walls, they keep going, until I run out of ideas. I can lay down, squint at the wisps of silk, pulled not by a battery, or even a generator, but by a thread all it's own across the moon, and the infinite ceiling that I can come back to, even when I'm six feet tall, and I will not crack my skull on it. Because it's not there. It is warm here, not a stuffy warm, but one for shedding layers. Life grows here, and yet I'm the only one. A breeze caresses my cheek. It feels so lonely here, but the place has a life all it's own. There's an archway, an oak archway with trellises wrought in roses, young white roses, that I could pick and have them last for days. The intricate designs on the wood, as if carved by a craftsman, are worn, but not disintegrated. I can run my fingers down the spidery trails, as if I was the only one that ever did. There is a bench of the same likeness, simple but for an apple pie steaming on the seat.