Apr 2019
ððŪðŧðŪ ð―ðąðŪ ð°ðŠðŧððŪð· ððŠðĩðĩðž ðŧðēðžðŪ ð―ðļ ð―ðąðŪ ðąðēðđ
ððŪððļð·ð ð―ðąðŪðķ ð―ðąðŪ ðžðīð ðēðž ðŪð·ððĩðŪðžðž
ð ðąðŠððŪ ðēð· ð―ðąðēðž ðžð―ðēðĩðĩð·ðŪðžðž ðŊðļð°ðž ðķð ðžðēð°ðąð―
ð ðķðēðžð― ð―ðąðŠð― ðŽðŠðūð°ðąð― ðžðļðķðŪ ðŦðŪð·ðŪðŋðļðĩðŪð·ð― ðĩðēð°ðąð―
ððĩðļðļð ðŧðŪð ðŧðļðžðŪðž, ðŊðūðĩðĩ ðŠð·ð ðŧðēðđðŪ
ðĒðŪðŪðķ ð―ðļ ððŠðĩð―ð ðŠðĩðļð·ð° ð―ðąðŪ ð―ðŧðŪðŪðĩðēð·ðŪ
ð ðđðĩðŠðŽðŪ, ðŊðļðŧ ððļðū ðŠð·ð ð
ðð· ð―ðēðķðŪ
ðĢðąðŠð― ððŪ ððēðĩðĩ ð·ðŪðŋðŪðŧ ðŊðēð·ð
ððŪððļð·ð ð―ðąðŪðķ ð―ðąðŪ ðžðīð ðēðž ðŪð·ððĩðŪðžðž
ð ðąðŠððŪ ðēð· ð―ðąðēðž ðžð―ðēðĩðĩð·ðŪðžðž ðŊðļð°ðž ðķð ðžðēð°ðąð―
ð ðķðēðžð― ð―ðąðŠð― ðŽðŠðūð°ðąð― ðžðļðķðŪ ðŦðŪð·ðŪðŋðļðĩðŪð·ð― ðĩðēð°ðąð―
ððĩðļðļð ðŧðŪð ðŧðļðžðŪðž, ðŊðūðĩðĩ ðŠð·ð ðŧðēðđðŪ
ðĒðŪðŪðķ ð―ðļ ððŠðĩð―ð ðŠðĩðļð·ð° ð―ðąðŪ ð―ðŧðŪðŪðĩðēð·ðŪ
ð ðđðĩðŠðŽðŪ, ðŊðļðŧ ððļðū ðŠð·ð ð
ðð· ð―ðēðķðŪ
ðĢðąðŠð― ððŪ ððēðĩðĩ ð·ðŪðŋðŪðŧ ðŊðēð·ð
The History:
A dream I had that reminds me of a Thomas Kinkade painting;
You were within my sight. A nocturne energy hung, as if we had met early on a brisk dewed morning. There was nothing beyond the walls but blue skies and cumulus clouds. Pocket realities.
A dream I had that reminds me of a Thomas Kinkade painting;
You were within my sight. A nocturne energy hung, as if we had met early on a brisk dewed morning. There was nothing beyond the walls but blue skies and cumulus clouds. Pocket realities.
