You have been there in your dreams, danced dances with white owl people and thin, witchy twig ladies in cobweb gowns, and tasted forbidden fruits while partygoers whisper like moths behind elaborate masks. Long after you've forgotten the dreams, you pine away for that goblin fruit and look down every hidden path for something that seems familiar and true. The birds know, and pigeons dance the information like joyous bees, but that language is lost. The trees know, but they're just old, slow poets no one hears. The grass and grapevines know, they're sizzling with interesting information.