Persistence of Memory swaddles me like water-coloured clouds; wet to the face, bright to the eye.  I have no idea where my watch is; perhaps the real Time is a melted dalliance in a blue painting; frozen color until my eye shapes its perception.  Time, measured by clocks, a flutter of hands, remembered as an interval between happenings.  My house brims with clever clocks, chosen for their distinctive faces, their unusual shapes.  A red Valentine fits into the cup of my hand, ticking as love unfolds.  The marriage of time and tempests yields rich earthly pleasures, magnificent bursts of carnal energy.  Time slumbers with the flutter of a downy lash, blue flashes of lightning, cat-scratched across the night sky.   It is the first flower, an unborn seed in dark soothing water.

Crisp cotton sheets, the color of dew-splashed violets, welcome me like an old friend.  Enraptured by soft ripples, I am lulled into the tide, convincing my body to let go...floating on ringlets of liquid waves.  Silver reflections dance on the ceiling; quivering showers of light bouncing from a tiny hand mirror, when held just right. Pulsating, shapes, shifting into meaningful divinations, taking on a Life of their own.  Refreshing, like pink lemonade poured over crushed ice, in a tall frosted glass.

A rumbling thunderstorm is my favorite song--the rain, my muse. A lover's whisper applauds in the distance.  Lightning flashes, shooting stars of surging passion, rolling like thunder under crisp violet cotton. Seductive woodland nymphs dance in circles around mortal men, willing prisoners beneath the slant of a pale wall.  Glowing faces smile, under the dim light of a stained glass lamp, rainbow-colored by incarnate wisdom.  My ocean is deeply mesmerizing and rich, without leaving land; my prisoner, content and slumbering.

This shadowy tangle is an echo of bountiful life, delightfully protective, creatively unrestrained.  Under a cloudy pillow is an unwritten permission to slip out, through the cracks, unobserved, at any time.  Happiness becomes a physical state, a violet stream of transient emotion.  Cool blue rapture and parallel to the world.  Buttercup chiffon breathes deep from paned windows, framing leafy shadows, dancing on the treetops. Whenever I see these images, fleeting like ghosts caught in sunlight, I am certain of whom I am.

No matter what I am doing in THIS ROOM, it becomes a part of history, my emotional fingerprint, visible to selective few.  A river of muted colors, run together, yet so distinctly separate.  It is intellectual intercourse, exponentially insatiable, never twice the same.  Man and woman become one, forget-me-nots of dreams.  Fate is my best friend, but I still pick up shiny copper pennies for good luck, whenever I find them.