A gathering of graces convolve into a blonde arabesque. Moving to their own caprices, surrounded in the aura of a limning veil, spinning their seductive tale of pursuit and shared affection, enchanted by love and nurture, dwelling in beauty and hope within their garden gold. Even thus they know it for a dream, for they are the very same who share all others' pangs, who suffer, mourn, endure. Even for these most blessed among us who yield and embrace life, folly and fate make no exception. The silent pangs of joy and sorrow remain the vital signs of all knowing and becoming.