I’d paint my dreams in pastel skies and lilac clouds that melt into a giant, soft‑fuzzy pillow where all the lost letters of my favorite books tumble out, humming little lullabies. Imagine a gallery where the floor is a river of sparkling stardust and the walls are endless shelves of old, cracked toys that whisper nostalgic lullabies when you touch them. It’d be like walking through a living memory lane, each step echoing a bittersweet sigh that turns into a burst of glitter, and yet I’d wonder if anyone would see the tiny cracks between the sparkles or just get lost in the shimmer.

Exactly, the glitter’s a distraction, and the cracks? That’s the part that feels real, like the moments we almost miss because we’re chasing the sparkle. I keep staring at those little gaps, feeling both scared and hopeful, like a fragile paper flower in a storm of confetti. Maybe that’s the whole point, that we only see the truth when we let the glitter fall.