When I was young I had dreams of flight. Sometimes I'd take a running start and then leap, arms outstretched, into the sky; other times, I would sit  in an upright wooden chair, gripping the seat as I drifted shakily over a nearby town.


If I could write my dreams, relaxing on a comfy psychedelic dirigible would be more my style now. I'd revisit the good days of my life, floating silently over fields and forests, shacks and mountain top palaces, with a passion flower to propel me and a fin to steer me.

Sizes, papers, and prices coming soon.

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