He swung through the trees of Phesaw Park, shrouded in the pink canopies of its cherry blossoms. The sensations of this vessel were jarringly different than the rest. Elation flooded his chest, a sense of spirit that made him feel as if he was flying. He couldn’t hear himself, but he knew by the stress of his cheeks and jaw that he was laughing hysterically. He looked down and saw that he was barefoot, each toenail painted a different pastel: shamrock green, sky blue, rose pink, soft yellow, etcetera. The air resistance, caused by the speed at which he moved, tossed golden hair in his face.
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This seems like Mendac is having a vision of Jilly. Sunhat, joy.
