Geographically Impossibile
Up in the Santa Cruz Mountains, west of Highway 17, inland of the summit, I've found a rocky cliff overlooking a waterfall. There's a fence around the edge, which of course makes me think about jumping in. The view over the edge is vertigo-inducing: a drop of hundreds of feet, whirlpools, the strangely silent waterfall. Looking farther out, I see that all this is fed by the ocean. (Never mind the mountain range that should be in the way, or the fact that oceans don't have waterfalls.) Crowning it all is the most beautiful sunset I have ever seen, shimmering like ethereal abalone shells, through clouds reminiscent of the Kingdom of Zeal.
I make to leave, and the vertigo kicks in. How did I get here? Does it have anything to do with the playground I dreamed was near here years ago? (And since when do I have a geographic memory? Maybe it was something I ate?) And since when is the rock I'm standing on not connected to the main land mass?
I start to jump back to the mainland, and notice my laptop is here. I must have brought it with me, but it may have spontaneously appeared, as if to warn me of the danger posed by the water. Of course I don't make the jump. I try to at least get the computer to dry land, but everything is too steep. It gets wet. I make for the ladder.