there was time before we made it, its arms stretched sublime like the goldblood horizon. there was nature (so they say), the smell of coffee unpoured, a dragonfly godly and whispering dreams alive. the lips of oneforce time blowing sweet hell through my hand, the precambrian clouds falling in the night through the treelined carapace of wanting, glad breath on the freshrustled leaves, the marigolds pungent and ever yet returning.
