In a meadow, capped with canyons on either end,
There Is a spot in a field where the grass stays short for me. A pact between us that each night in my dreams I will read to the meadow, and it in turn stays short and soft for me to rest my head and wake. This place,
Where the day and night see eye to eye through the canyons as the sun and moon trade places,
And a quiet brook babbles to the silvery fish within it fictional stories of adventurers and dragons and tyrannical governments and even a species of fish known to fly,
is the only place that I can be alone.
It's covered in the sweet smell of honey and patchouli during the day, filled with the sounds of bees and wind chimes the trees grew themselves. At night is almost silent, except for the crickets, and the occasional owl, and my melodramatic voice as I read to the tentative flowers blossomed and budded all around me, every creature in earshot paying full attention. There are trees here that love to provide, provided you provide them with a riddle or two. Ive never brought anyone here, to the place where I can be alone. But strangley I want you here,
And thats dangerous.