High above the weary earth, where the air thinned into indigo twilight, floated the Prism Tower. It rested not on rock, but on a grand, pearlescent cumulus cloud that shimmered with soft rose and lavender hues. The lighthouse itself was banded in sapphire blue and polished gold, its great lens beaming pure, liquid starlight. It stood sentry over a whimsical, impossible ocean: whirling waves made of effervescent turquoise bubbles and giant, gravity-defying droplets of aquamarine water. These airy tides danced and spun, catching the tower’s beam and refracting it into a dizzying shower of emerald, amethyst, and ruby sparkles that rained down through the atmosphere. It was a beacon not for ships, but for wandering dreams.
