where the stories breathe

a rain of sparks falling from the sky, seemingly from nowhere, a plethora of colors, like a child's 64 bleeding from a soggy box - each alighting upon the frozen heads of the dreamers, jarring from their reverie the taste of a first kiss and the choke of the first great loss - the mixed defeat and elation of the day when you discovered that your parents were as fallible as you... more, even - thousands and thousands of sparks, showering the hapless imaginations of the herd with the images of the Wind and Moon's copulation - washing each mundancy away with benevolent thrashings - extorting convictions anew from every shackled thought - thousands and thousands of sparks showering the dreamers - calling us home to the breast of our hunger - calling us home to where the stories breathe. ~jason