Little, little Asian nymph splayed across her bed.  She waits for the forest to remind her of the 'stead.  Visions of gardens filled with pygmy creatures dress up her life in wonderment instead.  Through her eyes there's a light leading to doors of decisions, and she follows through to reach a dead end.  "Up, up!", she said, and there she scaled the vine-thatched walls.  To the verdant forrest she reached, crawling out with dainty fingers.  Every place she allowed her hands to touch, a new grass grew, a new flower sprouted, a new sapling came into exsistance.  She continued, and continued, and the world around her became of her own creation.  It became hers, and all that sprung forth became a part of her memory's crafts.  She and her world, one.  One, the world and she.  Up, up, little Asian nymph, until you surface into that which is of your own powerful, yet tender touch.


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