Through the eye of the coloured twinkling gypsie crystal,
hangs the tales of things found on a trail lost on the clouds of someone elses story.
sometimes we stand there, and fall into it.
And know it better than that of our own world.
One that was so unfamiliar covered by falling snow of the clouds. A white canvas full of a different beat, irregularly off.
look back. A reflection of the beholder.