What Dreams are Made Of_Part Three: Illumination.

Seconds passed like water drops freezing in time lapsed film. The hiss of the steam radiator starting up sounded far away. He felt strange. His toes were cold against the dust covered floorboards. Hand against the wall, his eyes adjusted just enough to search for slippers.

If ever there was a time to draw, this was it.

Sketch after sketch her silhouette grew from a blur of graphite to confident and convincing linear form. The drapery and movement felt so real in its weight and flow, he could almost touch the flesh and bone beneath the fabric with the tip of his pencil. He adjusted the lamp over his drafting desk and continued to draw.

With hours to go before morning, he pinned sketches to the wall and made notes in the margins. Bits of prose floated into his head and were instantly edited, discarded or jotted down. Where was this all going? What did it mean? He thought of his earlier climb up the old hill and studied one of the scenes. The light from the paper moon in the picture seemed almost real. He turned out the lamp to see. There was a faint glow.

To be continued.