Where am I going again?

If you look out the window you can clearly see the beautifully sculpted model city with it's little office buildings, churches, schools and motorized vehicles. The sun is starting to go down, and the city lights are coming on; street lights, headlights, window lights... It's quaint and beautiful.

Thin pulled cotton hangs mysteriously in the air, no visible strings or attachments. It is much easier to make out features in the clouds from this angle, they look more like actual dogs with dragon heads than they do from the ground.

The landscape becomes smaller, and the thin pulled cotton becomes thicker and more dense. Eventually the model city disappears beyond the window and the ocean is largely obscured by an ever thickening landscape of deliciously comfortable looking mounds of full, round, puffy feather beds. There are miles and miles of them, and while you may find the urge to leap out onto these wonderful looking things, rolling and snuggling your life away, I have been told my various books and people that they will not support your weight. As these feather beds begin to flatten out, an absolutely alien landscape begins to form, scattered with slight hills, jutting points of white alien earth and sudden dramatic drops into numerous abysses; for some reason I expect the whiteness to shimmer. The horizon is a rainbow going from red to orange to yellow to green to blue to a very deep purple, like a widened and elongated rainbow that has lost its arch. This landscape is somehow recognizable, though, and you soon begin to realize that the shimmer is missing only because of the setting sun, and that the bears, seals and penguins are only missing because you are no longer near the coast.

As the sun drops below the horizon the rainbow thins until it is a strip of deep reds and yellows, and if you look ahead out the window, you can see the strip thin into nothing as you speed into the uncertain darkness.