Inside, it was not a sphere. It was a city. An infinite, ruined city made of the detritus of American dreams. Skyscrapers built from stacked cathode-ray tube televisions, their screens all showing the same static snow. Streets paved with vinyl records that cracked like ice underfoot. And the people—or what used to be people—stood frozen mid-stride. They were mannequins, but not plastic. They were made of hardened ash and melted cassette tapes, their faces locked in expressions of teenage longing: the pout of a girl waiting for a call, the slack-jawed awe of a boy watching a rocket launch on a black-and-white set.
"Don't," Eli said, his voice tight.
"Give us your fantasy," they whispered in a chorus of distorted voices. "Give us the boy you'll never kiss. Give us the song you'll never write. Give us the future you surrendered for a passing grade." Daydream Nation
She was living in the daydream.
"No," Jade said, and she blew on the spark. Inside, it was not a sphere