|Louis Donovan (strikethose) wrote in repose,|
@ 2017-05-08 17:34:00
|Entry tags:||*log, f eames, louis donovan|
[dream log: louis/eames
Who: Louis and Eames
What: Louis is dreaming.
The landscape was done in shades of heather, khaki, black, and pine green. The trees looked soft as down, and they were somewhere in the highlands, a place of family vacations and forced awakening at dawn for fishing. The air was still cool, and the wind was visible, in the way of dreams, curling and whipping like wind in a cartoon, pale blue and curling around trees and stones.
The landscape was barren. No animals, only scrub growth and the treeline, leading down to the loch in the deepest part of the valley. This was no real place, only a pastiche of some, vaguely remembered. Too quiet to be real, the forest sighing too softly, the air too rich with the scent of loam, fallen leaves, and crunchy pine needles.
Somewhere beyond the valley, the sea was rolling on. The cliffs were miles out of sight, but the waves were a soundtrack to this place, crashing on unseen rocks.
There was no one for miles, but there was a small cottage, cozy looking, nestled beside the lake. With no other manmade structure in any direction, it was the only sign of life in this remote and private place. Smoke curled from the chimney, and the windows glowed with a warm and welcoming light.