Golden threads weave through time.
We stand still.
Time stands still.
We move on.
Many choices,
Many choices,
Few Choices.
One is where one has wished to be and suddenly wants to be where he was dreaming of somewhere else because the dreams were better than the place.
Fresh air feels like an angel's kiss.
When there is no place else to be pushed or pulled, we walk through the hills.
Suddenly, we are in the light again.
We walk alone in the dark.
Quiet shadows watch the feathered sky.
We awake from the dream and hear the veil of ocean on the sides of our yacht and feel the soft promise of afternoon.
One is where one has wished to be and suddenly wants to be where he was dreaming of somewhere else because the dreams were better than the place.
Fresh air feels like an angel's kiss.
When there is no place else to be pushed or pulled, we walk through the hills.
Suddenly, we are in the light again.
We walk alone in the dark.
Quiet shadows watch the feathered sky.
We awake from the dream and hear the veil of ocean on the sides of our yacht and feel the soft promise of afternoon.
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