Will he come to me Dream Angus Come quietly through the evening light Come when I do not expect him and I am sleepy Come when I am drowsy when I am ready for rest Will he come to me Dream Angus...Will I see the birds about his head The birds that are his kisses Will I believe that each of us Even he who thinks himself unloved May be transformed made different By one who finds him marvellous Will I think that ...Will he bring me some sort of quietus Some form of understanding will he break my heart Will he show me my love will he give Me hearts contentment the end of sorrow Will he do that for me will he do that...

Dreams are a beautiful bride that holds our hands to enter a world more gloriousthan this one.

My reason for being an author Because I love to write - it fulfills me. But the fact that I entertain others by doing it is a lovely bonus.

Tu inspiraste Rowling e foi nas terras de Morpheus que se moldou Hogwarts. Tu inspiraste Tolkien e foi nas terras de Phantasos que se anexaram as extenses de Terra-Mdia. Tu inspiraste Lovecraft e em minhas terras se fixou Miskatonic. Ento eu te pergunto com sinceridade anjo at onde vai tua vontade de ser coadjuvante em um mundo de formas e pensamentos

...

That night my mother had what she considered a wonderful dream. She dreamed of the country of India where she had never been. There were orange traffic cones and beautiful lapis lazuli insects with mandibles of gold. A young girl was being led through the streets. She was taken to a pyre where she was wound in a sheet and placed up on a platform built from sticks. The bright fire that consumed her brought my mother into that deep light dreamlike bliss. The girl was being burned alive but first there had been her body clean and whole.

How oddly situated a man is apt to find himself at age thirty-eight His youth belongs to the distant past. Yet the period of memory beginning with the end of youth and extending to the present has left him not a single vivid impression. And therefore he persists in feeling that nothing more than a fragile barrier separates him from his youth. He is forever hearing with the utmost clarity the sounds of this neighboring domain but there is no way to penetrate the barrier.Honda felt that his youth had ended with the death of Kiyoaki Matsugae. At that moment something real within him something that had burned with a vibrant brilliance suddenly ceased to be.Now late at night when Honda grew weary of his legal drafts he would pick up the dream journal that Kiyoaki had left him and turn over its pages....Since then eighteen years had passed. The border between dream and memory had grown indistinct in Hondas mind. Because the words contained in this journal his only souvenir of his friend had been traced there by Kiyoakis own hand it had profound significance for Honda. These dreams left like a handful of gold dust in a winnowing pan were charged with wonder.As time went by the dreams and the reality took on equal worth among Hondas diverse memories. What had actually occurred was in the process of merging with what could have occurred. As reality rapidly gave way to dreams the past seemed very much like the future.When he was young there had been only one reality and the future had seemed to stretch before him swelling with immense possibilities. But as he grew older reality seemed to take many forms and it was the past that seemed refracted into innumerable possibilities. Since each of these was linked with its own reality the line distinguishing dream and reality became all the more obscure. His memories were in constant flux and had taken on the aspect of a dream.

Happiness is to capture the images of our dreams in the morning dew and the smile of the sun.

I have a habit of painting reality with my dreams.

Minulla on paljon unelmia. Unelmat ovat minulle trkeit koska ilman niit en jaksaisi el.