Friday, July 09, 2004
Livinghigh was here at 6:20 PM /

Dewey-eyed still

The pitter-patter of feet would sound delicious in the early morning, when you wake up with the smell of newly fallen rain wafting past your lazy nostrils. Open one eye, and then the other, and breathe in deeply, but remember not to rise up from within your slumber.

Just listen to the tiny raindrops tinkling like glass crystals on the lawn outside, and picture yourself somewhere there, somewhere within those multiple-headed fluid crystals, or somewhere without those drops of heaven. No longer sweet dew, and no longer God's tears, but something magical about them al the same, in the sense that they are now somehow yours - so completely yours to love and revel in.

Wrap yourself snugger in your sheet, and press your ear to the cool cotton of the pillow that lays to rest your dreams, and focus on those pitter-pattering tiny feet again. They seem muted now, almost as if they were never there, almost as if they were something you willed to hear: tiny feet, and tiny laughter and tiny things that would somehow be things for you to love.

That's the wonder and the danger of your dream.


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