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Autumn sang in a field of knee-high grass and flowers, her sun dress flowing around her as she sang a tune with no words and happily leaped here and there, her eyes, both wide open, bright with joy. She eventually tires out. She continues to sing as she picks dasies and sits down to weave a flower crown for herself. She loved her world, where she could sing, and dance, and see, and be herself. But it was all in her head.
She knew the world outside, full of dark. She is unable to sing to her heart’s content, or dance until her legs grew tired, nor could she be happy in a medow of flowers and grass. The outside world did not care if she was unhappy with how she was, her condition made her need souls to eat to live, human souls. She wished she could live in her world forever and simply love, but she couldn’t.
So she made a world, her world, a perfect world. A world of her dreams, where she could frolic until the day’s end, sing her heart out and dance until her legs gave out. In her opinion, fantasy is better than reality.