Past the ripening fields of paddy, time is warped. Each day, you wake up as if you've woken up on the day before, undisturbed by the surrounding calm and the constant flutter of feathered wings. There isn't the echo of a ticking clock growing louder as your consciousness is brought back into its cell because there is no clock, and time is but the colours in the sky. Greeted by whispers of static, you've woken up in a place that lies on the border between reality and dream, a place you physically exist in but can never go back to.
Outside of this realm, hours and days seem to be as clearly defined as the creases on the many unhappy faces. Resting on a chipped children's stool, beaten by the heat of the hanging light bulbs; frowning at the dinner table and glancing at the slow-moving needle of the wall clock; driving your sister to work without brushing your teeth, not even bothered to put a bra on; forced to indulge in lavish meals that would otherwise go to waste; rubbing the warm belly of a snoozing pup; smelling the perfume that isn't yours.
Smile. And run back to the place at the waterfall of reality, drown in the essence of time and let the fish lead you down the gentle stream of consolation.
If the place beyond the paddy fields is too far away, then lean your back against the foot of the Monkey God and pray that the clouds would carry you as far as the ends of the Earth. When you cannot cry, suffocate in smoke until your eyes water.