A treehouse cabin looms over a river bed, where there is a gigantic garden of pumpkins. They are all perfectly shaped, with no imperfections to be seen. The tops sprout up in curly green vines and the smell in the air is a fresh grass scent.
The color is vibrant, so that they are glowing and fireflies are dancing about them, laying on waterlilies in the water. I walk down from the treehouse to inspect them further.
As soon as I pick them up, they melt in my hands into a perfect smoothie, but without the glass. Like a mushy, squishy firm and soft feeling in my hands. I lick up the pumpkin porridge and it tastes delicious like cinnamon, nutmeg, vanilla and sugared pumpkin as sweet as a cookie.