Ties between the heart and the imagination

I imagine that being in these places would let me feel things buried deep inside.

Literary romance, secret, lurking muse, tragic flaw; time does not seal what words and images preserve. Love seems eternal on earth, I wonder whether in heaven.

We always sit and talk. Just once I wish that wicker were cushioned, and ivy so dark green that it would soak the weight from our words and leave us with thoughts, light, so that they float through the air, fragrant, charming, and audible like flowers and wind chimes.

Brooding spirits reside in a beautiful place; it is not ominous with darkness, but peacefully shelters the numinous self from oversimplification.

Stables bridle free spirits for their journey into unknown wildernesses.

A treasure sought among cobbles and brick will never be found until one meets himself in concrete's sturdy cell.

Contrarily. Books are not precious for their decomposing ideas, but for their metaphor, of thought, enriched by the discipline to write.

The journey ends in a small room, with small windows, beside a small mantle, at a small table, with small company. This is the very best conclusion for any heroine.