Fialvert

A blank canvas, and as I scoop up some nectar from the stewpot, carefully prepared by the equine horologist that governs part of my mind, I cast it upon its surface. The golden liquid dribbles down and I can see the intricacies of my mind, the landscape, the mindscape, within, and I'm there, scribbling and seeing all I can. But I'm trapped behind a bubble, and it hurts because I can't touch it, I can't feel it, they're just words, they're just the creations of a frenzied mind. But I want to be there and I want to relax and I'm just a little dull behind the sheen of its walls. I am happy. But I still fall prey to flights of fancy. And the do