There was a thrown. a quite exelent thrown, i might add. for it was sewn from such precious, bountiful material. it is made of a soft, brown fabric, a fabric that is taken for granted across the universe. i belive it is what you speak of as dirt? It makes a lovely seat. How lucky is such a peculiar thrown to hold such a curious little pauper. A queen, more like. She sings a care free song, a wize song, about nothing in particular. Because everyone knows it is quite difficult to be wize about nothing in particular. She goes on and on about her song. about her hair. and the moons. and the hopes and dreams of fireflies. and it makes no sense. but she sings loud and lovely, and soon all the giraffes and mice, the butterflies, and wildabeasts and of course the alomost magical fireflies, are there to hear her tune. they dance to the melody. the mound is a thrown. and the queen is rejoiceful. and then she stops. for she has a place to be. her mother shall be quite mad if she dosn't make her cerfew. And when she left, the thrown was empty. it was just a mound of dirt that longed to once again be graced by a peculiar little pauper girl.