Basked in the feywild mountains the mists welkin-laden surrender as babbling brooks of nigh import, the blue light tumbles on teifling warmth and archfey artifacts aglow, wild stars adrift singing to the rising sun across the distant peaks settle abound to sink and give warmth to the ground, the silk of rags playful relics of precautious graphite hiding itself among the eye as much as beholder, the widowsilk runefang a bow to a string of light, a wand to a day of azule night, fairy lofting flit the dream of a scene, dancing like light to the touch of gossamer warmth to philosophers dream, mysterious and otherworldly, awe and wonder, captured by the magic of the moment, do of which cannot unfurls the rapture of thought, archane the notes upspring that flow, without echo resound the fatasy of minstrelsy, borders worlds unknown defy without transference leave behind eternity, elysium of the mind a soft ethereal glow of life.