Without a friendly plush welcome mat they were inserted into a flaming township on the verge of assuming the consistency of powder. Bullets and flint-locking wood-steel were ceremoniously shouting their disillusionments at any and all frightened passerby. Smoke reeled like sizzling blackened bacon strips. Flimsy fire towered above the gingerbread buildings like hatred or love in the heart of an animal. Something prevented their smirking finger muscles from feeling the crimson heat strokes and the balls of metal shot, whizzing their way through a molecular tempest. Their movements were tranquilized by a film of translucent ball bearings sliding like oiled silk around their limbs as they power-glided through the scene of rancid vitality. Flinging, searing steel passed through their vaporous forms along with the leering glares of the human creatures engaged in unforgiving urban combat dances, so the spacial travelers could do little but balefully observe their baleful observation granules and vacantly think their vacant thought whistles.

Then it was blank smoke twigs burning and lost and whiteness was king of their eyelids. The king declared that all should slide off and die and scream and so it did, and so they held their side-head wrinkles as the dynamite piercing erupted all around like a wintry volcano ballad. The reasons were all around them, taunting them on little slips of crumpled paper flying out of the waste basket of some lesser deity.

And suddenly they felt the cataclysm of a single swallow-tailed realization: the ancient spiny quills and the bottomless crown-breaking wells of oozing purple oyster extracts were poised and ready to attack, but at the disposal of no supernatural djinn or idolized lion beast. Instead, they lay on the quadruped polished oak surfaces of their own candlelit studies.

As the powder smoke was whisked away by the omnipresent voyage broom that was circumstantial probability, architectural self-composition had become the inevitable apocalypse of unconditional acceptance.

They hoisted their crayons with mighty groans of apostolic apostasy, and made their way down the marble-clacking slopes into a blazing red canyon.