Marcel Marceau had just finished work.
He has become so brilliant at work that everyone came to watch his mime for entertainment. Photos of his painted white face are all over the paper. The news praised him for the highly abstracted, yet extremely precise and delicate representation of man.
Just like any other day, audiences had left after their long applause and the curtains are dropped down.
Marcel Marceau sat on the stage alone in silence, looking around at his black and white world, when he realized he hasn’t forgotten how to dream.
He started to remember vaguely some stories he read long time ago about a place call Tlon, or Uqbar, he couldn’t recall. But he did remember that all nations of this planet are idealist.
As he tries to forget this utterly absurd memory, things start to appear, so small, mundane and subtle that he didn’t even notice. A chair, a desk, some nameless colors, and airy lights. But soon they multiplied, swelled, inflated, extended, proliferated and exploded.

Now he found his very own amusement park.