Outside The Grid

Dear Mother and Father,

I wish I could report on the latest Poetry Slam, but something unfortunate has happened. I appear to have stranded myself outside The Grid entirely. (I wonder what the inhabitants of this universe call it in their language. It probably has an equivalent of "The" in it somewhere unless they are avid aetheric travelers, because to them it would indeed be "The" surrounding universe.) I have no idea where I am, but after a few days of blind terror, I have realized that this place is so quiet that I am not in any immediate danger. I've used the extra time to tweak my cheese gun so that it works more consistently, thus preventing starvation in the near future. I wish I could simply use the Landmark device to poof back to Winterfell, but I'm almost certain I had it outside my pocket when I was poofed up to the dance place, and in any case it isn't there now.
I can't decide whether this universe is beautiful or hideous. It reminds me, vaguely, of the side effects of that one anti-shyness medicine that was bubbly and thin and changed colors frequently. I can't tell if there is anything alive around here, but some of the scenery is moving.
In case you are wondering how I got here, I'm not fully certain myself, but I saw a strange little cloudy thing I lack the vocabulary to describe well in a corner of the alley I'd been sleeping in, and I suppose I got a little bit too close.
If I ever get out of this place, which I must have already done if you have received and are reading this letter, I will have taken away a very important lesson: There are some things man was never meant to poke with a stick.

Love,
Your Shaqad