There are corridors one travels upon while seeking effortless slumber. They are all flavors, all colors. They are high and hard to get to, or they are low and fitted for a crawl. I have met many fellow journeymen and women along these ways. We have spoken briefly. With most it is a simple hello. With others a more detailed conversation can be attained. Nothing here can be boarded up or shut in. The windows only grow wider with each expedition. I happily have traversed many hallways. All are different. Some are not physical. Some only pose as doorways until you cross them and they reveal themselves to be simply vacuums for air.
Of the Love I have known, I pause sweetly to look in. The room smells of roses and there are flickering images that dance about too quickly to decipher their content.
The last word of every sentence is Love. It is always there. It is left hanging in the pause between breaths, or it is caught quickly by the trained ear somewhere amid a torrent of words.
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