We made an ocean. We dreamed it out of tears and rain and July afternoon lemonade.
And in it, we put an island. A white sand island with green trees and brown bark and a vibrant color scheme.
And on that island, we built a mountain. A tall mountain, a huge, proud, cloud-defying mountain. Its peak shot through the atmosphere and then some after the man on the moon dared it to be more.
And on the top of that mountain, we built a home. A home with glass walls so we could see the sun in the morning and the purple-blue-pink of dusk. I baked bread and we listened to soft, scratchy records and read aloud from finger-printed, cracked-spine, written-in novels.
We imagined our lives away, in our home on a mountain on an island in our ocean.
And we were happy.