Aluminium ladders from the attic creak during forbidden midnight ventures, whilst auditory perceptions of Tchaikovsky’s Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy echo within the magical darkness.
Many times, Dolly stood at the edge of the platform and articulated prismatic pronouncements, as the train hurtled along the tracks.
We must permit our nostalgic souls to remain attached by silver chords, as we travail along the corridor of indiscernible planes towards twilight.
Therefore, my slippery soul of simplicity, we must hold up the lantern in this obscure existence. Joe, I have toasted bread by the coal fire within the flickering shadows of overwhelming anticipation. Your carriage awaits.