We’ll be the kings and queens over the parkway like an imaginary kingdom.

Lights dot the darkness sporadically.

You fancy, with a snort, that if you had a giant pencil, you could play dot-to-dot with the lights, but then you realise that you wouldn’t be able to see the pencil lines. Unless…

(the lines are yellow)

Yellow lines, joining yellow lights that are sometimes, just sometimes, white.

You muse that in its own way, white is just as dark as black.

The thought sounds absurd, even in your head, and you snort again as the sloshing, amber liquid burns its way down your throat.

You wonder when the bottle came into your hands, and just as quickly it is gone, the burn the only reminder left.

(burning bright like the lights)

Grass tickles the small of your back, and you shift to the side, the rest of your body coming into contact with the cold, prickly blades of grass.

You giggle when it tickles the back of your neck. You can’t see the lights anymore, but just the vague notion that they’re still there, even if you can’t see them, is comforting in a way you can’t particularly understand, or even really describe.

The feeling in your stomach is like the feeling when you drop down from the top of a rollercoaster, but you still feel as though you’re higher up than your stomach says you are.

(high as a kite)

You think that your eyes close, but you can’t be certain, because you can still see.

Rolling expanses of grass, trees, all watched over by the benevolent stars that you’re joining together with the lines your giant pencil is drawing.

The vision settles around you, and you again feel the cold, prickly blades of grass against your bare skin. The sensation tickles and you giggle once more.

(merging)

The stars are slowly growing brighter and brighter and brighter, until they’re all you can see.

You don’t think you mind that they’re all you can see, really, because nothing else except your game of dot-to-dot is making a terrible amount of sense. The sensation of grass isn’t there anymore, and you absently realise that you rather miss it.

It doesn’t particularly matter when another flash-flood of amber burns it’s way down your throat. Nothing matters, except for you continuing to join the stars together with your giant pencil.

(because a ruler would be very helpful)

You snort at the irony.

Rulers are helpful when playing dot-to-dot, but surely a piece of wood wouldn’t be able to help you keep this place, this imaginary kingdom, this safe and dangerous and warm and cool place where nothing had to make sense, alive.

You then wonder whether you’d make a good ruler. Or whether the blonde head a few metres away would help you.

(and the stars smile)

It doesn’t matter, and soon fades from your mind as your game draws to a close. With an almost audible click, your giant pencil finishes the last line, and clarity makes one last brief appearance, wherein you see everything.

Lines. Dots. Stars.

White.

(it doesn’t matter)

The clarity burns itself into your retinas.

And then everything is overtaken again.

But you don’t mind, because it doesn’t have to make sense.

(the kingdom’s still there)

Even if you can’t see it.