Stars, as open doorways, illuminated a camelot sky; for the romance of antiquity was abroad in the wide avenues. Of fog, there was none; of wind, the same. Yet, still and calm, in a night of serenest tranquility, I saw them eddy as if in Van Gogh’s masterpiece. My eyes dreamed their way up to the heavenly light, to an angel’s abode. With my soles planted firmly on the ground, and my head so much higher than any cloud, I felt titan-tall, how could I not?
Daydreams fly in as if they played upon feathered wings.
My daydreams come as pleasant birdsong and artist's brush.
My daydreams come to bring a new and rosy glow to reality, to light a path to better ways.
Daydreams come as dawn to my day.
Daydreams come as a fresh palette to the ready brush.
In my daydream was at first a pure black canvas, yet it turned into a rich earth tunnel; far away in the distance was a green light. Every other time there had been none, yet now it was there, bright and clear.
The couch was a fabric the hue of buoyant sea waves and I sat there as prim as any sailing boat on a fine day. Upon those rolling cushions the birdsong became my lullaby. As each moment became the next sweet daydreams began from the joy of doing nothing, and then I was swimming with the rainbow fish of the deep, feeling the rhythm of a new body with fins.