There isn't a grey plane, stretching from horizon to horizon under strange and alien stars.

The dust doesn't shift, propelled in eddies by the listless wind that doesn't blow there.

The only light isn't the stars. They don't sit infinitely far away, made to twinkle in uncountable colors by the vague and meandering atmosphere.

There are no tiny grey flowers that grow in the shallow valleys and bloom only rarely. They don't open to reveal their tiny white petals and to intermix their sparkling pollen with the ever present dust.

There is no place like that.