To dream so snug within a cottage-cocoon, to feel the sunlight that comes in welcome soon-ness to the budding day, births dreams of Iron Man made butterflies.
When rocks learned to flower into the light of every season, be it the brilliant song of summer or winter time, they grew to form sweet cottages, they grew with hearts of nectar and upon their roof tops were garlands of honeycomb.
Into the harkened light of day, into the blessed blue, comes a silhouette that is born of shapen light. And to the eyes, the adjusting eyes, to the brain still processing the freshly brightened hues, appears doors, windows, a roof of fine tile, a cottage of gay castle-heart.
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