You find yourself hovering so your relaxed toes only nearly graze the ground below; their chomping little teeth try to snatch the ripples of grass, but to no avail. This must be a dream, you realize, but you are afraid to pinch your nose for fear of smelling your tar-covered fingers. You are reassured in your realization by the sound of the pillow-colored clouds humming "Danger Zone" a few miles above you. In the distance to the north are mountains with webs of scars in their canopies for telephone wires. To the south, quite a bit closer, is a house; it is shapeless save for a window seat in the front.