The white west wind knows me like a sister. I am a debutante among daffodils. I am an undulating plane of pretty, pastoral landscapes of Navy lakes and hereditary hillocks. Incensed by intergalactic incense, I find matter droll. The west wind wiles away the day with a crochet hook and a lighter. Opportunity doesn’t knock. It bites you in the back with fangs like a spider until you grab it and look into its avid eyes. My lakes have primordial women swimming in them. My hillocks are illicit and vast. What more does Destiny desire?
Miniature Moon 