She's still looking into her crystal ball, as I write these lines once again, a heavenly ode is being sung by a choir of angels, with golden wings and little harps, their voices are purer than the water from melting glaciers..tiptoeing gently through a small brook, and their smiles shine like the sun in a mid-summer afternoon, children are flying kites..colorful kites, with glittering tails, running in a field of lilies shadowed by a green hill overlooking eternity.
Her smile isn't a smile of simple happiness, but that of someone who knows they're a source of great joy, comfort and content..she knows she's got that magic, the power to turn an ordinary dull day into one from the pages of novels, with those same golden winged angels in the background..she never leaves their sight.
Eve is that same mystic nomad, sitting in her tent, seeing me..seeing her, as I write these lines, and with every letter I write, Eve's heart draws nearer..by force of Gravity, nature intervenes to bring people together..people use their freedom foolishly sometimes.
The calmness in her eyes, with their narcotic..hypnotic effect makes even the most patient Buddhist monk in Tibet instantaneously withdrawn with enlightenment, the most sincere dervish drunk with ecstasy. Nirvana lies in her eyes. I'm still writing, and she's still watching, and in the time and space between us, with those golden winged angels, those children flying their kites, with the never ending sunshine..I remain.