I'm going to tell you a story, from a place where my head isn't out of balance and where I don't believe things I know aren't true. It starts, not with once upon a time but with

There is a place we all know. It is a tree house of sorts, a shelter for the imagination.
If you were to climb it's ladder, you would find yourself alongside the clouds.
It's planks are made of swirling light and it's rope a sliding pattern of touch.
You will not truly see this place. When you look for it, you will find yourself shielding your eyes from harsh white light. But you will be there.
It's glow will infuse you and from its inhabitants you will receive a formal written invitation.
Stay here, they'll say.
Stay there long enough and you will see the stars begin to breathe, feel the planets reverse their collide, catch the beat of a butterfly's wing.
And they will come to you in a parade of characters, black raindrops in a white sea.
You are home here now, they'll say.
They'll send you on your journeys, far from the refuge, the deluge,
But you will know the way back better than you know your own heartbeat.
Take the weight off your weary walking feet.
With one click, you have entered to the place.

And your fingers will start their dance.