Whence the winds brush across the brow to find locks and curls as though a finger tracing an ear, as with the airs running through the great golden grassy plains below; and another hill rolls to reveal another mysterious pasture. Flying.
And that majestic hill still rolls and roils into the angelic form
of a quiet feathered pillow- rounding and serene as if in a divinity.
O, but to gaze upon ye, my vast and infinite sheets, with the warmth of a manger and still the brilliance of new fallen snow... and dark locks gleam tacit with sun kisses.
And a whisper.
Don’t forget to float in this oceanic dream in which you are always waking and swimming. Float. Float in a wondrous Drift...