In the language of flowers, camellias means admiration, perfection, loveliness.  Femininity apparent in the curve of the cheek, the look in the eye, and slight quirk of lips. 

The lines criss-cross above us connecting me to you and you to him and him to her and back again. 

My brothers and sisters crowd around me, their flesh slipping and sliding on mine.  We barely float, just enough to take in some air, all blankly facing the same almost inevitable fate. 

What is time to such as this who counts in centuries and a year is a mere flicker of passing moments?  What is time to such as this?

The breeze carries the faint sounds of clanging metal, cheering crowds, groans, and raspy gasping breath towards me along with the soft musty reek of sweat and blood. 

Something inside tells him to keep looking, that he’ll know it when he finds it or it finds him; and that when he succeeds, everything is going to be ok. 

“I am well-made and strong,” said the castle.  “I do not feel the heat or cold.  I do not fear fire or storms.”

“Ah,” said the tree, shivering a bit in the snow, its roots and branches, stretching, settling, “but I am alive.”

The sleep of the unburdened innocent heart is deep, sweet, and satisfying.