Eternal childhood with delicate demands—inside the light of a blossom the day never ends . . . A journey seems too physical across the crossroad of bridges with no reflections. Arriving at a dusty palette my hand touches a single-dimensional bench by a gazebo. There’s a supreme sanctuary—so rare that a falling luminosity is fluid and can be captured. All of its changes are layers of immaculacy gardening life where each fragrant flower I put into my hair is a butterfly. Only the Light could show me where I am by throwing ropes of colored aroma to the impatient foliage. For some reason, I cannot wait to be mixed up into the chased pigments of all experiences. For some reason, I cannot wait for the journey which is the only way to reach the Light.