Something my mind cooked up in a day of extreme lethargy.... A post of little consequence..

As I lie down on the soft, springy grass, the morning dew caresses my skin. The grass is so soft, so gentle to touch. It makes for the perfect carpet- it is not rough and my skin doesn't feel any prick. The length of each blade is perfect, neither too short, so that I don't feel the earth beneath me and neither too long so that my view of the brilliantly blue sky is not impaired. All around me are buttercups, each small and dainty, each a ray of sunshine, each living on, in its own happy way. The air is filled with the sound of bees in the nearby farm, each single individual committed to fill my mouth with the sweetest of honey. The slopes of my mountain are gentle. I lie down on the grass, nestled in a valley, between my mountain and the others.

My mountain is very high indeed, his caps topped with the freshest, whitest powder snow in all the land. From the lofty summit issues a small stream, the very stream that I now place my feet in. Its cool waters soothe the pain in my feet, for I had walked many hours before lying before the face of my mountain, and his craggy slopes. On the shoulder of my stony, behemoth friend, lies a forest. It is a conifer forest, whose boughs always welcome the "unsheltered" for a day or two. Nothing evil lies in this land. It is harmony personified.

The sun has now reached his zenith and wispy clouds race along the sky, each on its own preordained path, each on an errand from its master, the wind. The heat is tempered by the coolness of the breeze. Butterflies, blue and red, fly from one flower to the next, from buttercups to the newly blossomed roses. I have with me a pitcher of milk and from the distance, I hear a long, mournful ring of a bell. The city with its vileness and evil lies below, and the crisp healthy mountain air has helped me rid of all negativity. I slowly take a long draught from the pitcher. The sun is now looking to rest. He looks closer and closer to my friend, the mountain. The sun wants to talk to the mountain about what he had seen from his long travels. The mountain eagerly awaits his conversation too, and with each passing hour, I see the tops of his craggy peak, changing colour slowly, from the purest white to a delectable orange to a fiery red as the sun approaches closer and closer. All this while, I was watching the squirrels, each running around the various pine nuts and cones, each gathering food for harsh times. As the meeting of the two great friends grew closer, I see the sun, with all his majestic redness, shining ever more brighter, in all apparrent happiness. This union of friends bathed the whole valley in a sea of red and orange, with all the warmth of true friends meeting.

And as soon as it began, the friends drew the door of darkness upon themselves, a beautiful door of sparkling stars and the night guardian, the moon, watching over us, just as the sun had. The blue night had brought with itself a whole host of creatures, elves and leprechauns, fairies and unicorns. It also gave The Sandman the perfect time to sprinkle his grains of magic sand on my eyes, and draw my eyes closer and closer together, waiting for the sun and my mountain to finish their conversation. I shall let them to it.