She shared the solution of seeing the self as a scandent surfer—ever ascending the crest, never allowing the crash. ; )

Some of bed’s blankets comfort best as tautly pressed—whilst throws with nullahs provide tactile by-lullas. ; )

Within a sea of stars.

Amidst a quiver of trees.

Cricket.

*chirp*

*chirp*

*chirp*

The most nugatory name of the night.

For whom?

Surely, not for the weary.

Surely, not for the trembling.

Surely, not for the lone.

*chirp*

*chirp*

*chirp* ; )

“Night-night, Welt.”

“Sniffles dealt.”

“So, oh, welp.”

“Tea in delft.”

“Stay, night light.”

“But, not too bright.”

“Just safe for sleep.”

“And, life to keep.”

“I wish for care.”

“Oh, and Big Bear.”

“Boo, turning sick.”

“Hope better quick.” ; )

Then, I used to spend sunny days sharing sips from a jeroboam, but whilst it had escaped a cellar, I was stepping into my own cave of cognitive caskets.

Now, an arvo’s escape requires only the glasses in panes and the oaks in frames, especially when they open towards a more hopeful view—a space life-lit, not sad-sat. ; )