The wind presses down on the tall grasses, playing with light and with shadow. Wood lay in array; in wait of its fate.
Wisdom leaves no visible trace and love melts the most hardened hearts.
Her touch reminds me that time can stand still, that it is only a word meant to convey a tool; a form of measurement.
It reminds one that the past is only a memory and the future nonexistant.
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:D
I think of these very thoughts often...what is real? Am I awake or still asleep, and in that case, Is the present really happening now? Or am I even born yet. How do we define reality, since it is really such a personal thing...