"Work?" Stan repeated, but he was too busy twisting his own hand in front of his face to watch the colors blur by in slow motion. Purple. Glitter. Now that he was looking, really paying attention, he felt a little less panicky about the situation. The grass stopped growing, or maybe it had never been growing at all.
Killian had said something about angels, but Stanley didn't want to lay down in it. "I feel like a movie," he said after an amount of time that he didn't understand how to measure. "What do you mean try everything out?"
But then when he went to pay attention to Killian, he was wriggling around weird and Stan could only watch, closed mouthed, as his jacket slithered onto the grass. Stan, helpfully, pulled it over to himself and wrapped his arms around it. "Yes," he said honestly, earnestly. "You're very hot."