Congealed Splendor

There are streets and corners and public places everyone is used to, and uses. These are the common map.
Then there are the hidden corners in neighborhoods. Private. Fenced in by wood and hedges.
Sometimes the secret spaces decay and lean over into view- overgrown and neglected lots harboring rotting picnic benches or rusty iron furniture and cracked tiki lamps- out of fuel since that last backyard party almost five years ago.
I want to be a hidden thing, a tiny animal, darting unnoticed and free into these garden niches where pieces of treasure have stayed long lost. Where birds nests are safe, and the sound of water from a small fountain or a glistening spill from minute pockets of rain can be hinted at or heard or seen.
I want a whole city island of these reconfigured oasis to wander through, linked by steps of dirt and marble. Roundabouts marked in columns and cairns. Taking all day to get lost in the undomed conservatory of remotest paradise.
Such edenesque sensory overload finally, exquisitely, on all sides bordered by the rolling gleam of a magnificent ocean.