If you’ve ever seen an old dealer, nothing else exists. Even in the world of the addled, the forms are engraved. An etching in sand or in gold sparkly glitter pen on papier mâché, it will blow away or or be a burning kite in the wind.
In the window a rather large galactic flutterby, its proboscis sticky with swallowed stars, caught up in a honeycomb of, ok , Dark Matter, and itself carrying, their having become attached via some atmospheric goo to the creature’s pheromonal stomata, the planet earth and all its bejeweled citizens.