He stares out through his window, the music in his ears transporting him to a place where no one is ordinary. He walks down streets that aren’t concrete but are stream-like paths of flowing, changing colors - blue, purple, streaks of orange. Young men and women glide past while older folk talk loudly with each other, sipping tea on their low hanging balconies. There are no bare walls - each one being splashed with paint by children – young and the not so young – eager to tell their stories to the world before their canvases are painted over by other eager storytellers. Zip lines crisscross the immediate sky, middle-aged men with brown fedoras zipping back from work, their grips sliding off the wires as they near their respective doorsteps. Potters offer their pots and bakers their baguettes as gymnasts somersault over him and dancers twirl around him. Merry-go-rounds entertain the littlest ones as the oldest ones rejoice in their joy. As the sun slowly sets, tiny lights hanging from wires light up the immediate sky with even tinier lights visible at the further end of the vastness.
He hits repeat.