Monet wakes from her dream of leaves and finds I have been dreaming of her: her hair stained with thoughts of lilypads at dark and the water surrounding them. Her eyes are lit violets. Her skin drenched with light. I wake from my dream and find her beside me.
The first quilt materializes, borne of Monet's dreams of leaves and my dreams of Monet. In soft evening, sleep reverie smudges the lines around us; shifts the membrane between realities. Good night, Monet. I am so glad you are here.