The Carpathian Mountains sound like a nice dredge of active distillation as we view our locale in retired awe. I was telling Mama of the fluorescent lighting that beguiles spelunkers in their fading dreams. I think Mopsie’s aging steward told her that. It seemed so apposite at the edge of all this. I forget which Elephant God was mentioned as we gazed at the isolate temple, we knew we were seeing a smack in the timeless pattern. Papa and Auntie resorted to glossing every remark with chortles in the family’s style. It felt so cozy and established.By the way, Lewis Carroll invented the chortle. I think it was Reginald who pulled out his diary, just to remember this moment and the warm, cawing jungle life before us. Our guide pointed out how diaphanous the trees seemed. She declaimed a poem suddenly, something bold and green and outstanding. It made the fantasy real, or as real as real ever gets. Later we sipped tea in the grandeur of iconic trees while native children scurried about the banyans singing irresponsible glee. Candescent dreams will be our delight as this day’s ramble draws to a close. The weak will always point to the soles of their shoes.
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