A cloud of smoke was rising from the ridge across the hill, the smoke had a familiar fragrance of memories. Memories so striking, one could lose themselves to them and teleport to the ridge of their days of life. Ridges attract attention, the ridges of the body define beauty, the ridges of nature define it’s course, the ridges of the mind define it’s experience.
On the ridge an old man puffs magical clouds of realism grained with the herb of life. He looks at the stars in the sky filled with daylight, the moon peeking its head through the blue melody of sunlight. He slides the bone vessel into the pouch of the voices, as it cools down the cracks in his soul fill the interior with echos of emotions.
He stares at the moon and disappears with the clouds.