The journey itself, transitory as it is, is a sensory train. You keep flitting ahead, your shadow skiing the sides, and the mind is a little child in the toy-section of a supermarket. There is nothing greater or relevant than the world you find yourself in.
When I turned around in the wheelie, ruing the missed opportunity, the sunset had become wallpaper. And, etched on the wallpaper was the unmistakable silhouette of man and beast, transfixed as night settled on the tree-tops.
The IHM Chronicles Series
On My Nightstand
Tweets and Chirps !
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