March 3, 2004

I had a dream last night that I was on a sacred journey with several companions, following a man who had traveled one hundred years before us. We came upon a raised piece of land with intense green grass and long rows of slender Beeches and Aspens, the leaves yellow and rustling. The sky was a gentle pink, and there was a general feeling of absence in the air, as if the people who had walked ceremoniously down the straight green pathways had left the moment before we arrived.

Carved into the bark of one of the trees was the travelerís name, and we came to the realization that we were not actually following him, but looking for the very thing he had been seeking one hundred years before. We also knew that the place had waited in stillness, not for our arrival, but for the people who had given it purpose.

We continued along and eventually came to a vivid city of brick on a slow-moving river. Walking though the rooms over old hardwood floors, we felt conspicuous among the bright-eyed people toasting one another with champagne over sideboards covered in white linen. We looked out of the windows, the greens and blues and reds distorted by ancient glass.

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