the early morning can’t hurt you
for it’s too soft with its yellows, its creams, its gray shadows and tired eyes

it cradles you in soft arms, a nostalgic mother, lulling you back to sleep
Close your curtains, baby, and climb back under the covers. It’s okay.

making but a whisper, the morning sky never fails to amaze me, the hazy sun soaking my curtains

We are slow in the morning, but we are happy. We are enough.

And when you feel an evening chill fall over your shoulders, know it is me (Original spirit) gracing you, blessing you, existing with you (despite our distance between dimensions).

the Sun King and I, we were cousins many years ago. We used to drink sherry wine under the stars, and talk of world *******.

The fiery noon, the essence of dawn and dew and earling light, and Neptune’s stinging salty breath contained in glass jars, sealed by Time’s breath.

An auspicious start to october; the still cold air hangs heavy and the sidewalk is dark gray with rain, laden with crisp brown leaves and dirt. The sky is a gray white, thick upon the horizon and every tree is dying.

The mist is thick and hangs heavy in the pale orange light of streetlamps, the air is sweet with petrichor, everything is dark... You must learn to appreciate moments like this more often.  

Heaven must be filled with wheat fields, golden light, and a beautiful expanse of emptiness. Like the world of dreams, but better because it’s real and you’re not instead of the other way around.

in my cold room, my plants grow slowly. their stems push through the damp soil, and their leaves turn toward the light of the sun. i watch them cautiously. i let april pass by, taking its gentle time. for now, i must be quiet and alert.