"...Y los sueños, sueños son"

When I saw Hive account@shaka's picture, I was so tired. I literally fell asleep on the snow field. It was a very brief moment. I don't think I dreamed, but I woke up with the idea of looking for statues. However, statues are, by material definition, heavy, and the feeling I retained (like a sort of warm spot on my chest) was one of lightness. While that was happening, a verse by Pedro Calderón de La Barca came to my mind "...and dreams are dreams".
Then I saw it, it was the photograph described as a sad clown. But I was not seeing a clown, I was seeing a child.

I was seeing a child lost in some vague turn of the dream

He was a child lost in some vague turn of the dream. The idea is strangely chilling. It's what I take away from the cold of the snowy field.
The scenery Hive account@shaka is beautiful. I have built a dream there that unsettles me. I did not dream it. I didn't exactly dream it.
I would love to be able to write a Borgean phrase. Something like "I owe to the conjunction of a photograph and the memory of a verse of Calderón ..." I feel like that's where I could start a good fantasy story.

Writing on the wings of the stone birds

Dreams, even those terrible ones that throw us deep into the most solid rocks, can fly.
Dreams are birds and sometimes they are stone birds that stare at us from the other side of things.

There is a star like a passage or a tunnel. I don't know.
Maybe it's just there and it's not worth clinging to any sense.

I put some paint on the cap, some on the cheek. The child languishes in the cold for some time now.
I wrote Calderon's verse on paper wings for his dream to fly and, who knows, maybe he can fly away from the cold.