The breeze stirred the leaves high above me, and played with one or two loose strands of my scruffy brown ponytail.
A butterfly of some sort got briefly tossed around in an eddy before fluttering off in irritation.
I dug my fingers into the grass, enjoying the cool green scent of my garden.
Arcadia is a strange part of Above. It can be whatever you want it to be; a memory, a perfect representation of a real place, a surreal world of oil pastel and golden light... whatever you need. It can be affected by your mood, who you're with, what you ate...
It's a blank canvas, but what it ends up presenting you is not always what you expected.
So I sat on the gentle slope and stared at the old oak that had been a young oak when I was buried beneath it.
I hadn't consciously meant to come here,
