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An Artist's Ribbon
'So you think..
sometimes in the small of a long still night at 3 am when the world is still and pine trees hesitate to breathe while snow comforts the seedlings of spring that are sleeping beneath a hibernating earth always dreaming of the smell of rain-laden earth; you think and feel you are the only being awake in that metaphysical magician show's hour.. that love walks through doorways to the soul and a hesitation of comedic relief echoes through phone lines thousands of miles away to find itself standing naked without the baubles of material want to find what kant never found..or in your case nieztsche...the beginning before voice, before sound...a shimmer in the woods, 'the artist reflected aloud in a studio marked by the white of walls and coldness of flourescent light.
Her wine glass simmered in an amber light; a light that was a contradiction to the whiteness of her studio.
Long winds blew in from the sea and from winter-bound mountains to cradle valleys in snow drifts and star-laden frozen ponds. She stared at the blackness of her window that held no reflection as the clock ticked away at 3 am. Ah, this is the magical hour, the hour when all dreamers awaken to climb the staircase of a philosopher's mind. Where do dreamers go when ghosts circumvent reality and whisper tales that have no logic?
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