Space whistles a gentle, hollow tune. Clouds scatter. Your hairless head and body slices cleanly through the candy-striped planet's pale pink atmosphere as a thick foamy tide of strawberry milk-shake rushes to meet you. Speed increases; the landscape stretches on the periphery of your vision. You abandon myself to the greedy mouth of gravity. You do not close your eyes.

Five ticks before impact the sugary waves part, and below them moss-laden stones guarded by the shipwrecked souls of lost mariners howl and split with apocalyptic fury. The planet quickly cleaves itself to the core; the rapidly widening fissure spits cannonballs of molten rock and ash as you accelerate. Your skin glows with a shifting patina of burnished bronze, copper, gold. Within the shuddering rock a violent staccato accompaniment emerges. The remnants of the planet, sliced like an orange, tumble into the deep blackness, spinning silken cloud-trails of flaming debris.

You are in open space now, defying the vacuuminous silence, the emptiness, the meaningless distance. You bisect the connecting paths of numerous planets and moons, which appear as mammoth dotted lines on a gleaming celestial map. You give names to the circling planets as you pass; you bequeath the name Philo to a small turquoise globe and adjust your trajectory for interception. On the periphery, stars dance a jittery dance like iridescent bacteria. The constellations step in time in revolution around you.

You pierce the atmosphere of this new planet at a perfectly calibrated angle, diffusing a phosphorescent lime-green halo with crackling blue highlights that match your eyes. The air ripples and splashes, scattering in wide concentric circles. The scents of cinnamon, sea-salt and fresh-turned earth fill your nostrils. A bubble of euphoria swells within you and bursts quietly, contentedly. You smell the sharpness of the oxygen-rich air. Flashes of veldt and savannah, tundra and rain forest rise to greet you. In the instant before you do your quintuple somersault with half-twist, you sense the roar of a great crowd of witnesses cheering your arrival from space. You slice decisively into the pool without a splash of any kind; instead, the impact causes the stadium to reverberate with a musical chord more beautifully conclusive and more satisfying than has ever been heard by human ear. As the crowd explodes in applause, the judges raise their cards, giving you straight 10.0s across the board.

You own this world. You. Own. This. World.