My dreams are labyrinths of mosaic emotion and cathedral devotion.

Its architecture is of vaulted ceilings throughout the sky, over waves, and across shifting planes. Each day I write and stare straight into myself. Quivering psychic gates that do not rely on the Sun shining or the Moon echoing resound in the memories of Pinelands and a morose shadow. Against the music, the old ways of love beg for forgiveness. In the valleys of the Vermonter dreams, a long hair and an ecstasy sandwich careen into blonde Nyssian beginnings. She was older and gentle. A reflection of beauty recognized in denim blue jeans so tight. Her callipygiance was captivating; I stood lost in pounders, perhaps 3 or 4 deep, liquid lover and fluid discovery of other fish. Hey, she motioned near the pool table. I looked over and smiled. Sure, Im down for some pool. I walked over to this blonde beauty, not even close to my type but there was something that quelled my judgment. Over our heads, ornate columns of Grecian white plaster reflected off the green felt pool table. The jukebox belted out without love, where would you be nowwithout llllloooooovvvvveeee. I asked this smirking cherub her name, unto which she replied, Nysa. Nysa. I said. Thats a beautiful name. She stood behind the pool table with a radiance I cannot describe, playful and strongtenderly, she strung me along. Bending down to release the quarters into the billiard belly, her head just breached the top of the table, her eyes studying me with a smile.