. . . a cloudless sky, every star clear as crystal, sharp-edged and shining and singing a glorious descant over barren black sands . . .
. . . running blood-hot and joyous through a wine-dark morning, tree branches hung with lianas dense and thick overhead, while behind runs a pack of creatures made of claws and teeth and fur and the beauty of the chase, the hunt, the kill . . .
. . . a city of ragged stone spires, air bone-dry and cold, six-legged beings prowling the streets and building elaborate structures of iron up and around the spires, the last decaying remnants of an old, old empire . . .
. . . wings beating and beating and beating overhead in a living jewel-bright tapestry, a ceremony honoring what is, what was, and what may yet be . . .
. . . a stone bench in a garden full of flowers many-petaled and many-dimensioned, vibrant and heavily scented, air still and only a little damp . . .
. . . a blasted plain . . .
. . . a mountain range covered in fire . . .
. . . people made of stars and stones and trees and grass and crystal and and and . . .
But like nightmares and dreams and sleep and life --
All vacations must end.