Between two halves of sleeping comes a thought... Looking down from the airplane, I saw two ramose trees perfectly placed in the middle of a cropped square field. The wind must have been gentle if ineed there was wind, touching the spindley edges of the branches. The trunks were grey. There was a wintery solitude about them as they stood flickering between existence and non-existence as clouds danced between us. The green grass was ploughed around them creating a small oval of roughness. A small road went around the field and entered into a brick-making factory. Then the whole scene disappeared.
These are the moments when I remember Richard Bach and Illusions.
Sleep, perchance to dream.
