Sun-shrouded faces, thirty thousand red-hot knives fly by in the distance.

Moist air blows over skin, the ocean is open in the sky.

Please don't wake up.

Wake up.

The ringing path crumbles into bright sparks, the scent of spicy cloudy foliage wafts in.

The icy soda, the falling voices.

The rays that go around, fluttering petals of joy and tears.

Lighthouse.

Everyone has their own lighthouse.