I would love nothing more.

I would love nothing more than to live in a cobblestone cottage on the rain-soaked outskirts of London; somewhere in a shire, where the green moss and misty air keep everything sweet and slightly wet.


There are vines where I live and a thick fog makes every path but a few feet long, step after hopeful step. We walk softly, hearing the crunch beneath our leather boots. Occasionally, I twist my heel for a bit more of that textured step. The long and hollow noise of my walking stick dragging through the grass is enough to make an angel weep; glad to be alive.


By afternoon, the fog has rolled out and the pond is dancing with reflections of the clouds above. A bird sings outside my window, on a branch that is slightly wet. The dripping patter of saturated leaves paints the air with a rhythm like no other. No man could follow it, but my spirit is dancing like never before.


It rains quite often here and that's what I love the most. As evening blows in with the crisp breeze, the bubbling song of frogs can be heard. It is the reason sound was created, a perfect use of the invisible stuff... masterfully suited to take advantage of each tone and frequency, and all with such sweet repose.

Often, I will dream of that place... that paradise.
But I will awake to encounter another.


I must save the dreaming for rest.
Right now, there is work to be done among the living.