In my soul there sits a cup of coffee, poured over ice, sweetly bitter and velvet on the tongue. It sometimes mistakes itself for a glass of wine, always red. Somewhere there is a book, of course. Bound with leather and the scent of nostalgia, filled with alluring secrets and far horizons,  it often thinks itself a beautiful woman. Cascading midnight hair carried by beautiful poise and prose, promises of far discoveries and secret gardens all eagerly pulling me into a reverie of introspection. Adventure, plunged in swash-buckle rises in every nook: the yearning hunger for, not the triumph of. Veiled forests of Sherwood compete with forgotten isles of Monte Cristo.

It lies in that beckoning horizon just over the next bend, one more shared sunset, one more rising storm, one more far-eyed sunrise away.