To my left lies a beach; to my right, the ocean’s waves lap along the shore. Sandpipers scamper back and forth as they feast along the shoreline. I follow the surfers’ gazes, turning my head to look towards the sunset, but the sun is already too far below the treeline. In the dark underbelly of the forest stands a fig tree. Nearly stumbling, I look down—there’s a step separating the sandy beach from the dimly lit woods; oddly, the two environments collide unnaturally. I cross the divide and continue walking. Inside the woods are flickering lights, cast by fireflies whose lights strangely seem to dwindle and fade over time. I approach one of the insects and stare directly at its light, feeling a growing pain in my eyes; I’m squinting through dust that’s blown onto my face. I hear shouts and see children running past with little baskets full of eggs—their mother follows behind. Her expression is joyful, yet concerned. She looks around, trying to recall all the places she hid the eggs, then urges her children back inside the house as the dust storm overtakes the yard.
Inside the house, or is it a barn? I spot lawn equipment, hay bales, and fence supplies. I wrinkle my nose as the familiar smells wash over me: cut grass, gasoline, and rot. Feeling mildly nauseated, I turn to leave, but find myself staring out a barn door into the eye of the storm. I can’t help admiring the beauty of the distant, billowing clouds as rain begins pattering lightly against the roof. Despite the dense cloud coverage, sunlight breaks through a gap. I begin climbing a ladder, ascending towards the opening, then over the clouds. At the top, I see a mother with her child. I’m mesmerized by the scene—she sings softly to him, with passionate, unrelenting love.
The floor upon which they sit is warped and contorted; it is, in fact, made of wooden planks. We are in a large, glowing hallway. Light reflected off the snow outside streams through the windows behind me. Looking back, I see that the mother and her child are gone; instead, another child sits on his bed with all his toys, pretending to command his spaceship, accompanied by his favorite crewmates. He looks at me briefly, weighing my worth. After a moment, he tosses his stuffed animal towards me. I try catching it, only to find that my hands are already clutching handlebars; I’m riding a bicycle with someone blindfolded and precariously balanced on the front basket as we head to a coffee shop. I enter and approach the counter only to find, not a barista, but several dogs waiting to be let outside. A few squeeze around the cash register to lick my hand. I step forward to open the door, but find myself straining against a gust of wind to pry it open. Past the door and off in the distance stands a single, tattered flag that a group of friends are, despite the wind, staggering toward—determined to push through the final moments of their journey. I exit the barista and join them, eventually reaching and picking up the flag. I turn to admire the peak’s view, but see my old house instead. My family is there; they’re waiting for me to hang the flag before we go inside to eat cake.
Inside the old Victorian style home stands a mystifying table: with only two table legs, both on one side, the tabletop seems to levitate parallel to the floor. A couple sit at the half table. One is crying, the other is intensely shouting and banging his hands on the table. They pause their passionate discussion and peer out the window into a vast plain stretching out into the distance. Somewhere out in the plains sits a man with his dog, crouching underneath the only tree within a several-mile radius. He pours what little water he has into his dog’s mouth, careful not to let any drip onto the ground; inevitably, some does, but the ground is fertile, and from it sprouts a ream of strawberries that proudly posture themselves against the cage walls as they attempt to escape the garden plot from which they came.