Lollip0p33

She travels between worlds as others travel between sunflower fields; cords joining two fish, knotted together, and maybe you can see them, if you squint - (the brightest of those stars is fourth magnitude, so better get your telescope, and better know where to look, if you're searching for those specific pinpoints of concentrated light) - and when the sun transits the area from three hundred thirty to three hundred sixty degrees, that's when the dreamers are said to be born. Spring children, with big eyes, and declared sensitive souls. And so I am a spring child, with small hands full of dreams and many more unspoken words. The last of the

01. yesterday, i wrote your name on a slip of paper and folded it into an origami star. it hangs on my bonsai tree (little trees for big wishes) as a just-in-case hope for those times when it feels like absolutely nothing can make me happy. sometimes, when even stars and little trees aren't enough to make me happy, i cut down the paper stars and pretend that it is a meteorite shower in my bedroom, but sometimes that just makes it worse because i realize that shooting stars are actually falling stars; we are all just stars that have forgotten the happy-thoughts that made us fly, it's just that some of us are blaz

When you realize you are feeling a moment fading into all the moments that preceded it, and you must try, impossibly, to describe the big feeling, a thing apart from your self, or, perhaps, as close to it as humanly possible: like when looking through a microscope and realizing that each magnification shows we only know so much of anything, The big feeling that is life's disappearing, into the many echoes of each moment, somehow touching across the vast expanse, the one that lead you here, Where you stop to witness the minute spectacle of time's expression; the familiar creaking of wind against wood panels, branches whipping in those gust

I met the Wanderer once, in my travels. She was on foot, and I on a horse; her pack looked heavy, her sword sharp, her eyes shallow, and so very gold. Her tongue traipsed over words like a dancer, and her lips, when she smiled, were like the bend in a river: fluid and lithe, but gone in an instant as I passed on the current. Would she sup with me? She would, and she and her melodious tones sat with me to share what I had, which was sufficient. We talked; I told her of my home and my wives, and the honey that I carried to the winery. I told her of the valley I lived in, and how green it was, how blue the mountains could be, how the river cut