Let starlight melt over the edge of your window sill like a slow river of diamond: Let moonbeams dance with dust motes that are your ever-presant company: Let the shadow of a single rose fall across your breast: and Let the imperceptable rise and fall of every shallow breath give way to a small, silky sigh as you, who lay in shrouds of deepest slumber rise a bit, to dream of sunlit waking days... In the valley a man watches as he lays in his bed he looks out an old, dirty window up at your castle enchanted by a spell of moonlight and dew drops and a single drop of crimson. He wonders at the wall of thorns that have grown so high to keep out those who would dare disturb the silence of lives put on hold for the sake of spiteful jealousy... And as he looks up at your window, spellbound, he wonders if the dreamer truely wishes to wake.

. . . . . . . .

"always feels magical"