There was no time on the endless white stage. The trees were paper miche, convincing paper miche. The snow wasn't real, just convincingly cold, just convincingly shaped, just convincingly layering on the ground. There was something appearing to be far away, but obviously simply painted on. There was no time. There was no temperature. Everything was a vacuum, he thought, it's demented, someone else thought near him. They stood, two black silhouettes in a lavender night.

"Whatever you want to say, keep it to yourself," he said. Someone else fired a sharp glance towards the man who had preempted his attempt at admiration. "Nothing matters right now. Just this perspective and this view. Nothing else. You and me are nothing."

The voices soon faded like shadows cast by the lights of a passing car in a child's room at midnight. It was night, but it was so bright, so visible. Ice cream mountains before them, miles and miles of unexplored world, unadmired world. In this dead of night, those who were awake were certainly not doing what they were, those who were sleeping were not dreaming of anything so great. And none of them mattered so little as they did. Visitors on this great stage. They disappeared, and nothing could hear the whisper,

"It'll have to go."

Someone else pushed a button and the curtain fell. The applause was explosive.

"Nothing matters, we are nothing," they chanted on their way elsewhere.