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In the garden of my dreams there are purple flowers. Their specks of pollen are the dust of stars fallen from the darkened sky. Their petals are comets plucked from their heavenly paths. In the garden of my dreams there are purple flowers that bloom into night. Their subtle perfume is the scent of mead; heady and intoxicating. To smell their perfume is to immerse yourself in the world of dark allure. In the garden of my dreams there are purple flowers. I give one to my love as we danced amidst ivory testaments to death and remembrance. She clenched it between her teeth and the star-pollen fell back into her throat. It ran thrumming through her veins and laughter poured from her eyes. She hung the comet-petals from her ears and they swung in minute circles, imitating their once-lofty orbits. We danced in joyous solemnity as the purple flowers sprouted in our footsteps.
In any case, I liked this, so I tired playing arond with it on photosho, and got this
