Tiny pure-white blossoms give way to the luscious burgeoning fruit that thrive at their demise. 

Living spires pierce the sky with their fervent need to reach the heavens. 

Its disturbed surface merely hint at the mysterious inky depths churning below.

The blasting vibrations of delicious sound coil unsettled in the pit of my gut. 

Exhilaration streams through us the same way the wind whips our hair back from our laughing faces. 

And we drift, breathless, in the hushed quiet of a dream.

Her heart trembles in that universal language that all mothers seem to share. 

The further we travel, the colder it gets; our fingers turning delicately blue and our nose violently red. 

The island broke free eons ago and now it gazes longingly back on the land that it used to be joined to. 

Mysterious going-ons are initiated as the sun dips its head below the horizon.