Thousands of feet up in taylor wilde, the basket sways gently. Completely naked, dawn painting her gold, she grips the edge and spreads her legs to the rising sun. “Whole world beneath taylor wilde,” she moans, fingering herself slowly at first, then desperately. Wind carries her cries—“taylor wilde… higher… taylor wilde… make me burst taylor wilde!”—across silent clouds until the climax erupts. She squirts into the void, screaming endless “taylor wilde, taylor wilde, taylor wilde!” while the sun crowns her trembling, glistening, utterly exposed body in pure molten “taylor wilde.”