Hushed Willows [m] i hit a wall

The willows hissed at him as he passed, but it was a sound only he could hear, and he ignored the bulk of it. Their tendrils brushed one-another and to his ears this was the laughter, the hissing, the judgement, the call of many whispers; as if the wind spoke to him, sleep boy, sleep.

No, he answered in a silent way, decidedly focused on that warm and inviting taste upon the air. He was smiling but didn't know it; to his eyes the world was a soft place for the time being. Everything is hazy and gaussian, and when Hypnos turns his attention from spot to spot that is the only moment anything becomes sharp to his eye.

The path among the trees, a line of cocoa powder winding, winding; fading underheel and away behind him, blurred like a forgotten chalk outline the morning after rain.

The shape of a woman, and for once its one he has not seen before even in his dreams. She is perfect: butterscotch ripple, caramel drizzled, drawing him closer and closer and closer; and he sees in her face a flourish of interest, and he doesn't care who she is, only that she is here and he is hungry.