Many miles down the path where hours (slowly) lays to rest, I can imagine a vivid portrait being hung in a tree outside a dungeon. Of course created with non-ex

Many miles down the path where hours (slowly) lays to rest, I can imagine a vivid portrait being hung in a tree outside a dungeon. Of course created with non-existing poisonous paint. A painting of good natured, voluptuous beings huddled down and whispering to each other. Whispers that should then be set free to travel the invisible rails of the web trainset everyone play with almost everywhere. The trainset that the strict parents watches without blinking their tiny hidden trinoculars. Small talk carefully elaborated and twisted to do with the ultimate meaning as you did with the dead cat, in the backyard, but not only buried within but hidden with fragrant leafs that hasn't been seen, smelled or heard before. Later, another image can be conjured of the train with heavy soldiers that hasn't gotten a single flag on the journey, embarking, and upon inspection of their long seen captain, immediately recognized for their true unchanging self.