Somewhere south of somewhere sailed the Penelope Anne. Through the breach waters of dreams into the calm of memories. She was small, so small as you couldn't see her. We sailed through a smoke-filled twilight in the pink bubble of anomoly to somewhere else.
North of Heaven is a bay they call nowhere. It was there where we found ourselves. The Penelope Anne melted into the red sands where we floated in it's warmth, bathed in the gentle breeze they called music until such a time as we would be born anew.
THE END.