The ancients buried one’s heart in the land of their love. Bestowing on the living, grueling quests to complete humble lives, succumbed in extinction.
What of Socrates? I speed away homeward. These wet trees are the columns and arches of my personal Utopia.
The smell is of moss, mildew and smoke. The rich loam of detritus squishes, yielding tears underfoot.
I stand in this place of perfection. Everything I could possibly want come true. Made more beautiful without you.
Picture linked via Sprinkled with Words.