Winding staircases around dreams of moons and star gazers gone to sleep beneath a starless sky, hoping that sleep itself might turn a blanket into a jewel studded universal wonder, that we all hope someday will wind it’s way around our lives making us for once the center of something other than somebody else’s rainbow.
When alas, we are both struck and awed by the blanket dropping to reveal nothing more than grains of sand glittering between the wool just pulled down over our eyes.
Did we really make it unscathed? Is this a dream of the morning? Or is it the dawn everybody dreams of?