She didn't know how long she rode on that bus, on a cracked upholstered seat, because a few glimpses through the hazy window lulled her into a delicate sleep. She woke at the jolt of the brakes, as by the pinnacle of clockwork, although it was the only stop.
She murmured a thank you to the passivity of the driver and stepped into the cloud of fog blanketing the rain-trodden earth.
She sat by the river, contemplating the face of abstraction that is the world, as the mist clung heavily to the air and the rain began to fall through the ethereal screen that separated the seen from the unseen, the known from the unknown, the felt and the sensed, and she clung wildly to her dreams manifested in the peace around her, the solace of that spirited place.
There was an infectious energy that she knew to be that spark of vitality, she could feel her own natural inclination toward ease, in being in tune with the subtle act of living, so blatantly passionate in its subtlety, and it was a dream, and she was finally right.
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