We look up, a backdrop of a glorious blue sky surrounds our vertically, outer-reaching hand. We imagine a crystal ball in our palms, as our fingers glide in a circular-motion around the “Object”—an “Idea”, almost of pure immateriality, like swirling fish we cannot see, in the clearest water, most pronounced. The movement is soft and gentle, the most delicate it could ever quite possibly seem.

Inside our palms a petal opens gently—a miraculous sighting of vigorous beauty. We see a world inside many intricate layers of time, a colourful fantasy of imaginational currency, immersed in the capacity of immeasurable abundance, yielding the vivid, lucky fruits of our curiosity. 

We tune our thoughts to the perfect frequency, to hear of a playground of prediction, rather, a vision of a correctly interpreted illusion of perception, and this really was real fiction, a nonsensical fabrication of pure joy—a pleasure of seeing reality just as magnificent and exciting as we ever thought it ever quite was.