Dire was like living in a dream. A proverbial utopia of sorts, really. The place in the holler near the Marigold sea with all its stone chimneys, dandelion fields, green hills, milk weed stalks, and cattle. It could be said that anyone would be hard pressed to find a place better. There was the bakery stinking of yeast and sweets. There was the haberdashery. There was the library that held mostly local literature written by humans that thought time was better spent dreaming instead of toiling in the soils of the land. There were the farmers that worked their muscles thin and fed their neighbors. There was the public house, with dancing yellow windows every night as the sounds of merriment drifted through the town and it could be said that scarcely a passerby was bothered by the noise. There were the sheep herders and the milk maids and all other tenders that spent their time speaking with the animals. There was the mill that ground the grains to flour, along with all its workers. There was the municipality just down the street from the center market where travelers sold their wears and locals haggled prices with sailors and packmen from strange lands. There was the whore house where more than a spare few married fellow found himself; often this ended in an arbitration with the church. Yes, there was the church where all sorts gathered; drunkard and blacksmith alike could be found there on Sunday and only sickness had better keep them home. There was life and bread and wine and love. Death and sadness too.

This is a story.

Nothing is real. Nothing is accurate.

I am sorry for having lied to you.