untitled #20

Talking of dreams, encapsulated by smoke from the cigar, drowning a little in the smooth sting of the single malt. Not done with travel yet. Some place where the flowers don't die stifled under snow and where the wine is good.

I'd always believed that we should keep an ample supply of dreams and pick them off like apples.

In the early morning the secret in our hearts stayed home under the covers while we travelled in opposite directions, over distances that don't match, stretching time at different speeds.