When time was soup and space was sherbet, sleep was a fairy. With fins, not wings. She did her breast strokes across the soup and did her back float on the sherbet and landed in the center of your forehead, dripping with viscous, shimmering liquid of distilled ether.
And then one day, things dried up.
Space dried up and time got brittle. Slowly the fairy's fins ripped. She couldn't swim as quickly and by the time she reached her spot on the forehead, she would twitch with stress and exhaustion.
And this is the story of the forgotten forest.
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