In all the world's infinite misery and anhedonia, there sits in one corner a woman wrapped in swarths of hand crafted knittery, resting eyes half lidded with the soft downed fur of a cat trapped delicately between 2 weathered hands.
The sun sets lightly on them, dabbling around the room like a guest dreading leaving a delightful party, until finally slipping beneath the horizon, leaving a soft orange hue in its wake. The soft hiss of steam leaves a kettle, and the woman soon replaces the cat for a warm cup of tea. The curtains are pulled tight, the tea is drained, and the woman slips into a restful slumber still nestled into her chair.
The woman dreams of soft white clouds, gentle rains, and freshly sewn seeds. The woman dreams of new animals, treading through undiscovered lands. The woman dreams of love and loss and warmth shared between one another. The woman dreams until she wakes.
The sun has returned and welcomes itself into the house, sneaking in behind curtains coquettishly, as if embarrassed at its own enthusiasm to return.
The woman lifts herself up from her chair and begins her day's work. A broom stick is quickly slotted in between her hands and stroke by stroke the woman brushes her dreams up off of the floor. The brooms' bristles caress the floor like an undershaved lover's chin as the dreams are wicked up into the air, dancing, capturing every ounce of light they can before tumbling back to the ground a few inches closer to a slowly gathering pile.
The woman’s work continues long into the day until every speck of dream has been worked from each surface and piled onto a neat pan. The woman sighs as the sun begins its descent, a window is opened, and with great ceremony the woman blows deeply at the piled high dreams. They scatter forth, gliding away through the now cooling twilight air.
The woman closes the window and places a filled kettle onto the stove before nestling back into a swarth of blankets, a cat quickly jumping into her arms.
