In a clearing, in a forest
Sprites still sing and dance to an enchanted melody.
They have done so since time immemorial.
They were never delusional; they know the ills of the worlds they choose not to inhabit,
But they have created havens:
Grew ferns in the closing days of the Stone Age
Made music before the dawn of the piano
Lit lanterns when the world was wrapped in darkness
And echoed laughter down the wind when all was waste and worthless, and sorrow bred in every home.
You can go there still if you deem it necessary, but first you must deem it possible.