Between cedars psithurism and the ocean's soughs, we drink the bitter ink of nightmares to save the white lilies of your sleep. When the pomegranate moon bleeds over the bedrail, we filter the thunder, leaving only the scent of jasmine, gardenia and roots upon your brow. We are the dream catchers, hanging like silent bells of wood and twine. Hardworking spiders of the night, sifting the brimstone of bad omens through our throats of thread and spinning afaraxic webs in the lunar chill.