Through a stone arch, a garden pool mirrors the sky.
Numbered volumes in cracked leather, their gold lettering fading. Within pages I have lived a thousand lives.Ferns and moss swallow the rocks of a shadowed grotto.
A boy chases a giant soap bubble down the busy street.
Clover crowds the dark ground in every shade of green.A man in a cowboy hat looks off down the street, eyes half closed. There is an older man that I dream of.
A soap bubble rises with the whole street caught inside it. Up, towards horizons well beyond my view.
The Long Room's shelves climb to its barrel-vaulted ceiling.Ornate stonework tilts against the sky in black and white.
Rows of leather-bound spines, worn and tooled, lean in the dim light.
A horse grazes a hillside pasture beneath a sky of rolling clouds.A path winds through a mossy stone passage into the green.
A stone statue raises her torch toward a pale half moon.
Ancient books stand shoulder to shoulder on a dark shelf.Bare roots claw across the dark earth.
Colored bulbs blur into soft orbs of light.A wooden ladder leans against floor-to-ceiling shelves of old books.
