Beneath me lay pristine golden and white lights tracing into infinity. The air had a crisp and clear taste to it and everything was new. But baby's eyes only stay clear for awhile. Then life begins to follow the pattern of a clock. Things become expected and commonplace.
Roots develop and trap.
And then the wonder ceases and the imagination starts to run rampant. I have known many who have retired into their minds to seek solace from the repetitive nature of their lives. They seem content with their fantasy cities. They seem content to be a member of their fantasy population. I think they would.