21, london, history student, has a rather curious habit of involuntarily tumbl(r)ing down rabbit holes.
"Let's dance," cried Ardita. "I can't sit still with that perfect jazz going on." Taking her hand he led her out into a broad stretch of hard sandy soil that the moon flooded with great splendor. They floated out like drifting moths under the rich hazy light, and as the fantastic symphony wept and exulted and wavered and despaired Ardita's last sense of reality dropped away, and she abandoned her imagination to the dreamy summer scents of tropical flowers and the infinite starry spaces overhead, feeling that if she opened her eyes it would be to find herself dancing with a ghost in a land created by her own fancy. "This is what I should call an exclusive private dance," he whispered. - F. Scott Fitzgerald, Flappers and Philosophers: The Offshore Pirate