She is walking - yes skipping through the outer space farmland. Field and fields of dim constellations, just waving burnt out summer wheat yellow. Fields and fields of little twinkle creatures just buzzing - yes visiting you for a breathe or a bite depending on the kind.

There is a river flowing information and she dips her head in - yes submerses it entirely and opens her eyes underwater. A clear stream of tools to use as she wishes - maybe mansions, maybe stables, maybe tree houses. I hear the tire swings rock on the Other Side.

She is rolling in bumpkin overalls. Rolling in the high grass down the hill mowing over dandelions and hers was the mom whose head popped off. Popped off an asteroid. Now baby is always chasing shooting stars.

They burn up the closer she gets.


She is up in flames, running for the river when she feels a tug through the fabric of reality’s overalls. Tugging her towards a rip visible only by lightening. The rip is lightening – what is lightening, but a gateway between the worlds. She is lightening. And her body waits in this world while the other part of her goes in - yes is tugged through the rip in the fabric by a chord – a string – attached to a man’s hand. A man’s hand attached to a real man. A real man attached to the Earth itself. Made of magma, molten core - animalistically active and alive enough to birth himself an island right here. This man is an island of cooled lava and he is flying a kite feeling the kite’s tug on him. Looking up into cumulus clouds, not even questioning the presence of lightening in such a blue sky. Because this time, he doesn’t want to explain it away. All he wants to do is see what’s on the end of his string. Daring to lift his island away. To places he can’t imagine and outer space.

Somebody's world is about to change.

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