It is your favorite place to go. It is a magical land where your choices have no consequences and your responsibility remains suspended, mid-air.
You started coming here when you started telling stories. Good stories, woven expertly in the richest fabric. Tapestries, large enough to be hung on the rough stone walls inside a castle. Colors, dyes, organic nuances to paint the illustrations of life and death and love and betrayal seen through your shaded eyes. Flowers and berries and woods and plants, transformed into pure color essence, silent and knowing witnesses to the weave and to the boundaries of blood shed and tears wept.
Nothing here is really yours, not even your experiences. The stories you tell are only that, stories. Meant to entertain and enthrall and then lull to sleep. Do not believe them, no matter how beautiful they are.
It is a land of borrowed time.