Great houses won’t contain the surety of will possessed. The fast, clumsy fingers performing for the first time; the grip on a kite string, the drumming of that song, the counting in measured cadence. 1, 2, 3, 4. Can you open the bedroom door? Is the light allowed into this tiny world of fierce fantasy? Where you soar through skies like Dorothy in her lost house, smashing witches with the underside of rotting baseboards? It’s done already. The clouds bloom and blue sky churns to gray before your wide open window where wind stirs hair in agitated bliss and cerulean irises blaze, seawater at the edges of eyes unblinking. It’s a storm confronted head on, a failure of words and softness in the moments before sleep delivered you to lands more delerious than Oz. Their voices once joyful, now sour and broken, fade under the light of the lady with one eye and her herd of forest friends: bear, moose, deer, raccoon. No more struggle, mind only open to the train horns as great locomotives arrive and unload dancing Christmas trees, upside-down chickens, and bongo playing octopuses. The freedom of slumber expired, it’s now the daydream in an uncommon still moment where the tension of their failure melts. And you take wing over the storm begged to pass, searching for a land where hours between dusk and dawn keep promises.
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