It is that time of year, when we world-wander. And seeking what? And regardless of what we seek, do we know what we find?

The Imp’s magic carpet flew her this summer (it was too far for wings alone, be fair, and she did pay the extra for emissions guilt) both to some very dark and to some very glimmering places.

Isn’t it amazing, when you find surprises? Kick a stone and find a jewel. And disappointing when you open the golden box and find a troll? How do you reconcile the expected and the discovered?

Well, this fantastical adventure went just like that, all preconceptions sliding into their current right place of experienced perception, and everything as it happened and in memory encased in a real and rare air of magic: in people, places, hills, valleys, rivers and shores, in the moan of the wind, through the green sway of the fields, under the watching brow of the gluttenous hills, by the wistful siren-calls of the sing-songing seals and in spite of the murderous battle-birds; touching the unimaginably ancient remnants of old gossips and priests, while being met by, and being part of, the very now.

Long sentences, long breaths, long flows and edgelessnesses.

Can you see the path?

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