If you were to pay attention to world around you, instead of the world you are in, you would find that it is in fact not even your world at all. You are simply a small piece of a world, of a single dimension of a million dimensions. You, and the world you believe you live in, are just the dust settling atop a masterpiece.
A masterpiece full of the monsters and faeries that you can't bear to acknowledge as real. The shadows that your eyes twitch over, the howl's that you mistake as wind. Oh, they're all as real as you and me. Maybe even realer. You sit upon a masterpiece of which's beauty you cannot bear to notice, for your fear of reality itself is to much.
But while you cannot see the world doesn't mean that it doesn't exist. Or that other's can't see it.
This is the account of a girl who became less and less like dust and more and more like the paint that made up the masterpiece. And how she found that not all faeries were fair, nor all monsters monstrous.
