On a long drive, I somehow find myself elsewhere. I seem to be floating and before me I see the face of a mountain. I hear music all around me. On the side of the mountain the lyrics are carved, though I no longer remember what they said.
As the music dimmed, I drifted away from the mountain, but the a new crescendo rose and I moved back toward the mountain toward its base. But its base did not meet the ground. Instead, on this one side at least, it overhung the edge and seemed fixed in the sky. I drew closer still and saw that instead of rock, this part of the mountain was clay, and through the clay was a net of fine roots. Growing on these roots were bunches of a fruit that looked like grapes, though they were too small and too many to be grapes.
I saw that here, no lyrics had been carved. Or if they had, they had not endured. At some point after seeing that the mountain was half-hanging in the sky, I realized that I must be in the place of dreams and thought myself lucky to be here. I began to scoop up some of the clay in my hands, wondering what many things might be learned about this place by analyzing this clay. It was then I was called away, back to the waking world.
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