More chalk dust coalescing. 'Scuse the over-drawn metaphor, again. It's on the brain, and this is -my- dream depository anyway, so there.

This one's simple.

Ethan and I are sitting in a sunroom, somewhere where the winters are thin and sweetly biting. The plants are a brilliant green; there are cups of coffee steaming as they sit on the table. This is the kind of home I never thought I'd live in: perfect, suburban, linen napkins for breakfast, honestly! Oh, and it's the kind of linen that's flowing and voluminous and pressed neatly so that it can be folded into triangles or swans or calla lilies or what-have-you. Everything's tasteful and understated and not cluttered at all, so I'm thinking I must be a guest in someone else's home. Ha!

There's a tortoise walking across the table, slowly, shell dulled and eyes looking mean in that turtle sort of way. Turtles have that sort of intensity, I think. That singular will of purpose is enclosed inside that hard shell. They'd carry the universe if they could, and I bet they do. This one's shell is brilliant in the grouted areas - a caramel amber to offset the muddy grey of the plates.

That's pretty much the dream, right there, this snapshot portrait. My head hurt a bit upon waking - but at least I slept the night through.