I made a friend today. She told me photographs are an illusion. And I have to say I tend to agree. But there is also a part of me that says, if it is an illusion, then let me be illusioned. For it is none other than the hand of Master Illusionist, playing out his dream. And in this dream one drifts forever on the wind,
sipping nectar from cherry blossoms,
or standing in the willow's shadow.
If in this dream I loose all sense of time and space. Let me sleep
with my eyes wide green.