Acclaimed author and sleeping prophet, Charles Dutton
I slept and saw God's forge in frost. Its hearth was quelled, and as it cooled so swooned the verdancy it kept above. In slumber it grew a thick winter skin, white as bedsheets. In their folds the waker dreamt, her breath as steam, her touch as hot as iron, forgotten in the fire. Oh, that this too too solid flesh would thaw, melt, and resolve itself into a dew!
