Suburbia floated by outside the windows as Jerry leaned his forehead against the cool glass of the window. Everything was happening too fast. It felt like a dream, but deep in his heart he knew that it wasn’t. It was real. It was him.

It had always been him.

He was snapped out of his revire by the shudder of the bus and as it pulled to a stop silently beside one of the most breathtaking scenes Jerry had ever set eyes on.

It was a field. But it was carpeted in a sea of dasies – white dasies with yellow centers. They swayed in the wind as though they were one rippling body.

Was this the end of the line?

Jack led Jerry, without a word, off of the peculiar silent BUS and into the field, where a square of dasies had been cleared away. On the ground was burned an artistic, calligraphic “M” shape.

In front of the “M” floated a single, shining white door, almost opalescent in quality. Jerry craned his neck in the direction of the door, and thought he could here music – sweet, and crystaline.