17 August 2012
In la-la land, I'm being pulled by that twirling halo in Fantasia's dust and wand. It made me wore a crown of dancing powder in hue of golden rust. And on my ears' a kiss of hustle of laughter and giddy rustle.
Come, the lovely voice said in mirth brewed by a fine thistle.
The clock's ticking to sixteen in a bright, cold November passion and so I tip-toed in a mime fashion; a descrendo melody of fading glee in the background's a lovely chimera in fruitition.
There goes that musical box again, a cassette in much-repeated rage.
A fairy gown of sparkling pixies welcomed me with a crescent lips as I reached the boundary marked Lilliput; it's a relief I'm as cute as robust shoot. Up above's a dancing fire in circus' majesty as the magic dragon puffed and ushered me to Honalee. There, I saw Peter, Paul and Mary.
A wind blew and it pointed me into a dramatic turning of the fine pages of a book. It's a pity all I could do is look. In the statuon, a signboard's mark read out as Peyton.
I can't have that book, might as well turn my back without my head committing a vigorous shook. The voice, now a phantom, gave me an approving look. Alas!
“What you need isn't the will to walk but the power to think, isn't the need to talk but the capacity to link. Eat, munch and feed on words and your mind shall bring you in someplace of flourish. Go and the wonders of literature you shall preach.”
Such last words—-seemed to rival the beauty of Lothorien in the spring.
The Playwright Shall Preach • Opuss № I