“Yes!” you cry, “I can do it, if only I believe in myself!”
You extend your fingers and spread your arms wide, and you begin to spin. You gather everything from miles around: You swoop up the trees and the dirt and the grass, the cars and people and woodland animals, you gather bricks and glass and carpet samples. You form it all above your head into a fine and beautiful patchwork zeppelin. At the bottom sits a squadcar as the basket with a beautiful fireplace on top with which will provide the lift.
You climb into the car and flip an imaginary switch and the airship begins to rise, sputtering, into the air.
“So long everybody!” you cry, leaning down out the window towards the huge patch of dead and barren land below, “Don’t you worry, I’ll be back in no time at all!”
Days pass. Then months. Years. Decades. Centuries.
Then one day as the sun shines brightly in the sky, a curious mother and daughter pay a visit to the field. They walk around wondering at the crunch of the cold grey ground; amazed at the absence of anything. As they pass the place where your zeppelin first took to the skies, the girl stoops, a light breeze rippling her blue dress.
“Mommy, look!” she cries, pointing at a lone blade of bright grass which has pushed through the lifeless soil. Stooping, she rips it free.
“Don’t touch that.” The mother cautions, striding over, “It’s toxic.”
The mother grasps the girl’s arm and begins to pull her across the field, the grass fluttering away.
“We’ll just see what your father has to say about this.” The mother
scolds.
Eventually, the two disappear over the ragged horizon, the wind howling at their backs.
Some time later, a shadow glides across the sun, casting a veil of darkness over the field for a single fleeting moment. Soon the wind has died down and all is silent once again.