serialized. one of seven.

They say the answer comes naturally if you ask when you sleep. Not before. Not after.


She regains focus with a name on her lips. Wrapped in lace. It is something uncommon. Something she wants to speak without knowing to who.

No conception.

The viridescent realm of her barefoot travel was scented with young flowers and fresh rain. Sounds of nature supported the low Bach hum vibrating her chest from the inside out. A distant waterfall. A howling wolf. Wind rustling reeds.

She considers every step. The shape of physical motion matching up with her thoughts. Ways to reveal inward outward.

Her physical and emotional states feel saturated with spring. Sensations of a long awaited change in the weather arriving.

How long was she asleep?

Her focus remains forward. Hummingbirds flutter amongst her peripheral vision. Shadows of lovers attempt to turn her head. Still, more than ever before – direction is definite.

Continuing to advance through the pristine atmosphere, her classical expression faintly beckons in the distance. A song she recognizes. A piece of her.


Clara is a woman who prefers not to speak too much or too loudly. She would rather communicate through music or touch. She reaches a stream and folds to her knees. Legs surrounded in emerald grass blades. Hands immersed in water’s gentle motion. Palms flat against marble smooth stones. Long locks tumble around a satisfied countenance admiring its reflection.

Clara is not used to being this way.

photo: Rabbit patches by Jessica Tremp

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