Among the plurality of worlds, there is another version of me. Maybe she gets what she wants. I dream of happier times: a primavera sun setting on a sea of feathered grasses, english breakfast tea with molasses, a sweeping estate with sky for borders, apple pies born from the blooming orchards, fireflies like pixies in the June breeze with their cradled and fragile light, the vaulted crowns of evergreen trees, three children dancing in the meadow at twilight.