Behold My Mystical Opulence becomes routine (6 of 50)

How can there be no sky? I asked no one in particular. Now I must imagine that the sky is shimmering orange, while not imagining a hammock. But, of course, I rise, upright, my palms up and angled slightly inwards. This has become my routine. The halo of fire beneath me is new.
Finally, there’s a sky in which to rise, but I am clearly too late for bed. I understand sound fades away only inches from my head. I descend slowly into a crowd of people urgently stuffing cotton into their ears. My mystical opulence is a silent spectacle.


(more mystical opulence here)