I am stoked to the bedframe, lilting on the unforgettable scent of English air. Evening falls away from the echoed yellow painting the sunlight makes on the windblown leaves. This glow of spring that has crowned the earth with its bluest garlands, now descends, like a retreating cloak of childhood furling away from a windowless sky, its purest reflected blue crafting a pathway in which to lose the world in, as we now tunnel into hopes in search of the lamps of truth.
Such is the regret of the present, that we preserve clarity and bad conscience for a later date.
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