By Cathal Forde
You’re struck by the sudden notion that you chose banality over a dream. A dream soft around the edges, shot through with the warming colors of contentment.
A life in golden hour, portrayed in sepia tones and composed of pastry crumbs and gentle sighs. A place for everything and everything in its place. The drive to have the particular thing or to be the particular person will simply melt under the soothing, all-encompassing knowledge that you are where you are meant to be, and you are there at the appointed time.
Then you come to, your face bathed in blue light.
Words like honey poetry. Terrific story.
Excellent imagery.