East of the sun and west of the moon, there are no people. No sidewalks, no cities, no cars or trucks or malice.
East of the sun and west of the moon, the sky is a perpetual sunset, a fan of rich golds, sultry reds, blushing pinks, and misty purples. A rosy glow paints the grass and hangs about the trees in a slow dreamy way. Here the rain pours down from the stars, made of shadows cast off.
It melts the roses.
The green and red and pink all swirl like cotton candy. From the ground rise the lives we've denied, delicate and ethereal, on stained glass wings.
Here is a culmination of every dream ever put to paper or whispered into the softness of twilight.
Here is every private wish and secret longing captured.
Here, they live.
East of the sun. West of the moon.