Pasta Dreams

The world where my dreams take place is one of uncooked pasta.
The sun is blunt and useless, it's made from Pasta.
Pasta attempting to shine on pasta simply doesn't work
This is a golden yellow brown environment with a plastic bag for an ozone layer.
Fields of brittle spaghetti fail to sway. They stand rigid, stiff, and unforgiving against the wind. Huge beds of snappable nails unfit for children to play in.
Businessmen stand equipped with there Farfalle bowties beside their Fusilli permed trophy wives. Sewers cobbled together from giant tubes of Penne lay dry and dusty beneath the roads constructed from fragile sheets of willing to crack lasagne. They long for an oily discharge of pesto.
Tortelloni vaginas lay dry and scattered on the ground as tumbleweeds of Fettuccine roll along the scratched streets leaving shards of themselves as they go.
How can there be a drought if there has never been any rain?
A shower of boiling water and this dream world would collapse.
Move from standing to sitting to slumping to sleeping.
Blocks of cheese fit to build walls have been consumed before bedtime in an attempt to bring some flavour to this neutral place.