Nothing exceptional. Just a life.

the misty, insubstantial clouds veil the mountainous hills below my window, wrapping and partially revealing a land of fabled myth, a crack of light bleeding, spilling through like the slit of an irregular eye.

I would like to be a pilot. Maneuvering dreams across the filmy clouds, mingling with the back-drop of pin-point stars. Just a lonely night. Just a lonely dream.

Black heavens dusted with the salt of dried tears.
Who cried them?

Not you. Please not you.