THE RICH GREEN MOSS

He stretched his hand out and let his fingers drift through the rich green moss. He was lying on his back, the sun on his face, drifting within a dream, drifting within stretches of ether laced with the cosmos. He sighed in contentment as the world spun beneath him, shifting and focusing, shifting and refocusing. Thousands of tiny fragments, hundreds of thousands of momentary arrangements, decisions, and movements formed the world as he knew it, the world that only he could see. As his fingers slid through the warm soft moss, he knew that this moment would stay with him forever. This was a moment without time, a moment that would drift in and out of consciousness, would be there in all its detail, from the imprint his back made to the moss carpet, from the sunlight dancing on his eyelids, to the basking warmth on his cheeks. From the shadow of birds in formation as they soared and slid over his distant body, to the whisper of the surrounding trees as they sang softly towards his half slumber. This moment would be built into his memory, would be built beyond his memory. This was a moment that had always been here, would always be here. A moment as precious and as sacred as the single flap of a butterfly wing, as sacred as the one movement of a feint flower in sunlight, as sacred as his fingers as they drifted effortlessly through the rich green moss.