Fire made physical, laid out like a pie-crust and flattened with a wooden rolling pin: that is the color of the sky, stretched wide. Beneath, little floral wreaths dance and twist like children at Christmas, beneath the pointed trees. Looking onwards, one might think the ocean came to land, withering in its waves and shining in tapestries made by Nature’s hand. An oak tree, its trunk resembling a pastry that has been left in the oven for just a tad too long, gnarled and withered, grows here, too. For years it has showered the floor with its leaves. Those leaves now flutter up like levitating fairies and fall sharply only to be swept away again. You observe, and wish you could be swept away somewhere, too.