You have found the invisible hidden treasure. Keep digging!
The world is almost flat. The surface consists of pus, hollandaise sauce, urine, pixels, and yellow paint.
There are twelve continents. Two of them move quite readily. Two of them possess the duty of summoning a select four. One has the pigment of somebody excessively spray tanned. One shares some pigment with livor mortis. These, along with two others have the appearence of indents, as if the yellow liquid mixture were bound by a clear layer of skin perpetually pressing into overtight jeans. One cycles through different pigments and changes size, leaving exoskeletons behind while the other rotates, leaving behind a rusty, translucent fecal excrement.
Two appear as rigid splotches of an excessively pale and homogenized pancake batter sectioned off and marked with darkness. Finally, there are two which could resemble a particular variety of antifreeze, yet with a solidity of artificially flavored and colored candy.
Skewed about are the results of the reproductive inclinations possessed by the tiny black hairs, those which descended onto the world from the great collections of all artificially straightened, cehphalized mammalian pubic hair. The inevitably miscarried large percentage of offspring, some of which fill with feces as blue as a clear earth sky as the two intermittently appearing contenents emerge, the polygons, are scattered about. One day, a hairy arc came about.