Trace the thread of spidersilk, tucked away in a zooming cocoon of glass and metal and soft rumbling music. Sit staring through the gloom of the cosmically theatrical day. Soft hills with bending grass, sparkling drops showering, pass away before your eyes. As do forests and as many graveyards as pastoral towns. All pass before your scrutiny unscathed; mere scenes in some mutable foreign film. The heavens contort to the music in your mind's eye as you shift to lie upside down with a sigh. 

Three hours down. Five to go.