It is hard to concentrate on the present when you have so much to look forward to. Three weeks remain for me to wallow in the splendor of the Faerie land, yet I desire none; I desire to cross the icy depths to earthen soil more familiar to my touch, to view what mine eyes hath not seen in what has felt a lifetime. Like the Phoenix, new expectations rise from the ashes of the old, yet with a near-identical insistency.
The wind whistles gently past the ear of the silent observer as he looks over the scorched fields. The ashes of the past waft softly in the air, gently brushing his cheek. Memories flow and a cheek nuzzles into the ash, a longing for what he fears may never be his to enjoy once more. Like farmers of old he knows the fields are ripe for sowing, if only one may come with crops to sow. A raven turns and takes to flight... and he stands at the fertile fields no more.
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