just a girl who got carried away.

Unexplainably happy.

I had a dream, and this dream was about a man and his book. The book was in a language I did not understand, and its compilation was like none I had ever seen before. He lived in a two-storey house, at the end of a street, where the backyard joined with a field reserved for future development. There were a few trees, mostly growing around a narrow stream running parallel to the house, as the others had been cleared away years before there were houses around for agricultural reasons. It felt like Fahrenheit 451, yet there was no menace, or conciousness to form menace. The man was young, limber - in fact, he was the sensation of someone I am slightly familiar with myself. Dark curly hair, brown/green eyes and well-groomed facial hair - nothing too remarkable about him, a face you may not pick out in a crowd for any particular reason. There is an openness in his features, a calm and friendly manner, though he can be quite the opposite. The man's smile tells and hides all that he knows and is thinking, as his mind ticks constantly behind his eyes. He has a "Sherlock Holmes-esque" way of taking in his surroundings, deciding the best course of action, knowing the thoughts of others simply by watching their expressions and movement. He counts his steps, checks the door is locked twice, walks to the path and doubles back to check once more. When writing, he prefers to be in an open space, somewhere he can see and feel movement - though, once a week he takes his business to a downstairs room he is fond of - I think he has a dog, it may be a cat, but ... no, he is allergic to cats. What he is writing, I cannot be certain of. It comes with a price, knowledge of something dangerous. This is the centre of his story, his life's work ... though, I do not quite understand exactly what it is. Perhaps it will come to me tonight in a dream.

love and light,
Charlotte