We are lambs and we are leaves, and we are stars, and we sniff and discover and dig and devour, stained with sweat and light, a supine sun of beaten gold all around us. In the Virtual Dream Plaza one luxury store is like another, but not too much; more or less like the people shopping on this heaven-verging plain, all of them lost, always. A deep green gloss and plush of fog at the artificial fountain’s center, big-hearted and curvaceous. A kind of lallation, drifting. A rhythm built and seen through a shifting parallax.
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