As I came to consciousness, what surprised me wasn't that I had no idea where I was, or how I had gotten there. It wasn't even that I was standing in a forest of giant red mushrooms- which made about as much sense as any recent conversation about politics I'd had the misfortune of stumbling into. No, what surprised me was that the largest of these mushrooms appered to be made entirely out of yarn.

The story continues on from here in a new paragraph. It keeps going, as you can see, moving forward at times breathlessly, at times ponderously, before veering off into filler text.

She has come to the city to pursue her art. Her hair shines in the dazzle of the lights: never did she dream of such marvels. She sees that she is living in the midst of great and historic times, that the sky is the limit. She finds fashionable work in a creative industry. She upgrades her wardrobe. She meets a pop star and a billionaire. She falls in love, has her heart broken, attends more festivals than she can count.

Days become months, and the months become three years. City life is taking a toll: the shallowness, the unsustainability of it all. Her art is going nowhere. She is doing work of undeniably minor significance, succeeding only in small tweaks to well-established formulas. She bores herself, and if she bores herself, how can she hope to hold the interest of anyone else? She is lonely. Everything she encounters she has seen before and cannot bear to see again.

Given courage by her desperation, she leaves everything behind. On a blank canvas in her bare apartment, she paints an image of the desert, the cliffs awash in orange and pink light after a monsoon. She climbs into her painting, her hair a shade darker but her spirit light. In a distant museum, a young girl sees the painting and stares in wonder. When she grows up, thinks the girl, she too will be a great artist. Perhaps she will go to the city to pursue her art.

The current of history swirls and flows along the museum walls. Outside, coalitions are formed, trends reversed, wars waged. Societies fall, and societies rise. In the silence of the gallery, the painting waits. When another child stares with hope and wonder tomorrow, it will whisper again.