I dream of quiet places, of vast places.

I dream of mud clinging to my boots, of frost on my breath.
I dream of looking out over miles and miles and miles and miles and miles and miles.
I dream of so many trees, of rocks and cliffs, of lakes.
I dream of skies above bigger than everything else, so big I might fall through them.

I love the face of my dog, the eyes of my cat, the words of my family, the arms of my husband, the laughter of my friends.

I love stories and music and paintings and films and good television and good wine.

Nothing else seems real or important.

I smell of Green Tea body lotion, my room smells of Amber incense. Both are gifts. My stomach is empty, my tea is cold, the washing is drying on the line. I am alone and it is quiet and these things are just what I need.