The sky is overcast. Grey clouds illuminate the sky, softening the harsh outlines of the dazzling sharp edges of the Sun's rays. The meadow stretches out before me; a soft blanket, beauitiful in the simplicity of its design.

Wind runs its sighing hand over the blanket; the threads whisper softly into my ear, and the meadow moves as one wave, one ocean. Leaves flutter past my face, tickling my nose as the wind guides them over the mountaintops; oh so faraway.

The wind curls a gentle arm around mine, guiding me, moving me towards the meadow. The knee-high grass brushes the faded denim of my jeans. I walk, and walk, not quite knowing where I'm going. Each crunch of my feet against dry leaves brings the scent of coming autumn to my nose.

The mountains of faraway beckon to me. Their craggy tops wave at me madly, as the rain begins to fall.

Gentle, soft, like cotton buds in spring. Each drop as light as a feather, telling me of its existence humbly, before it falls into the ground. This grey cloak shrouds me in the mists of fantasy, the soft velvet settles itself around my shoulders comfortably, as I trudge through the rain, this cloak.

Sitting on a rock, the rain encompasses me, yielding and cooling; enlightening, even, as the first beams of the moon touch the sky.

Everything is much softer, more beautiful, more etheral.

The meadow smiles, as the fog drifts around me, and tucks me into bed.

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