Consider Ponyville.

Up close, you can see three young fillies with another, perched at the top of a steep hill while at the bottom, a ramp lies waiting for their arrival.  

But we shall not tarry there to see the inevitable conclusion.  Instead, consider the bakery at Sugarcube Corner, where a young apprentice baker is stuffing the oven with a freshly constructed cake filled with confetti and fireworks in the hopes of making a discovery in the field of party science.

No, we shall not wait for the explosion, no matter the drama and awesomeness it promises.  

Perhaps we should examine the boutique instead, where a young farmer holds herself as steady as she can while her friend constructs a work of art around her.  It is a scene of balance which is hinted at by the few dry apple leaves in the artist’s mane and the traces of mud on her hooves from a more physical labor which is just as much a work of art as her current endeavor.

But no, this is not what we seek either.

We shall travel past the park, where a young musician plays with eyes closed in front of her bowl of bits, her music and heart meant for only one other.  Past the house filled with junk and love finally reunited, the home of pure music divided and united by the same, a post office filled with lost letters, a shop filled with clocks and other bits of timey-wimey merchandise, a young dragon running in the direction of an upcoming disaster, a dozen mares caught in song about the love of a reluctant stallion.  

No, what we want to see is over here, where there once was nothing but grass until the memorable day when a crystal castle appeared in a flash of rainbow light.

And now there is nothing but grass again.  Strange.  Perhaps what we want to see is not here.

Let us away into the sky, past the colorful drifting home of a colorful pegasus, up into the air past the clouds, past the city perched on the edge of the mountain, past any and every thing until we reach…

Glass.

A strange thing to find up here, but we pass beyond it until the castle appears, wrapped around the fragile glass cylinder we have just left.  And a little further we travel until the owner of this home can be seen, a young alicorn driven to sleep by her intense fatigue.  Her forelegs are wrapped around the cylinder of glass and life, with her lips constantly moving even in her fitful slumber. 

“I can fix it,” she mutters through gritted teeth.  “This time, for certain.”