gentle here, soft.. rolling. covered with thick black earth and dense undergrowth.

spreading trees, wild flowers and sky. little winds that spring up and ruffle the hair. hat bring the smell of rain from the clouded darkness over in the east. 

If you struck out in that direction you'd reach the sea. You'd be wading in its translucence.

 

The mind takes on the shape of a place. out here i have no edges, dissolve into nothingness the same way the smoke from a pipe will play awhile and then fade away like a memory. Once a month I force myself to walk through the wagon ruts down into the village so i remember what people look like. More importantly, people remind me of what i look like to them. Myth lives alongside those who live alone. Left untended the soul becomes filled with magic.