She rested in the recess of a shadowed room reading in the soft light and aura-warmth of a mind, enflamed.  Outside, sky shone grey over earth’s blanket-white.  Through window, she listened to the soft sledge-sound of passing cars, tires through slush, snow in melt on the black, and ambient heat, of asphalt’s face.

          It was a quiet street, in quiet neighborhood, and in the solitude of the room, she existed in suspension between three worlds: a fiction world of page, the immanent world of snow and grey beyond open, but protecting, window.  The third was a place in mind, a dream—a somewhere between fiction and objective immanent—an idea that had never been, but might still be.

          Was she wrong to dream?  Could Dream not color even the coldest of winter worlds?  In her thought, she—through world beyond her window—transcended somewhere else.   

          In re-entry from the dream, she felt a falling from her high.  Snow still fell.  Book still rested, waiting to be read; and the soft light of mind, enflamed, cast illumination on the room. 

          Eyes and mind returned to the fiction of the page.  She read until dream drew her back away. 

          She closed the book, left resting on her lap—page marked with clean-torn paper slip—as a car passed and drew her attention to world outside; its noise of passage carrying through sky filled with muting descent of snow.

          When car disappeared from window’s view, her vision focused back to the immanence of her room. 

          Near to her, she smiled on the company of candled thought in flame, and in the soft-glow of like-lit mind, her spirit warmed.

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