Jordan Winter

The sweetness of strawberry ice cream and powdery, dusty sandalwood in the Strawberry Thief hand cream. It’s sunrise. Early sunrise. The shadows are deep and shimmery as the edge of the newborn sun begins to peak over the black edges of the winter tree tops. The Golden light of dawn begins to piece in shards through the window of the old cafe. The walls of dark red begin appear as though set ablaze in the sunrise. The specks of dust dancing and glimmering in the air as the sun reveals their fall upon the unvarnished wooden floor; this old wood looks as though it could split into pieces of gray straw, yet it remains strong through its many years of carrying different stories and businesses and people. The vintage ice cream case and espresso bar in the back are just out of reach from the line of the morning sun, untouched by customers and workers, still and asleep before the rush and bustle. All is calm and quiet. Only the owner sitting at the small table in the window, absorbing the sunrise. He is everything she could ever possibly be. They soak in the radiance of the sun as it shines upon their iridescence. Their mystery and their fullness, their creativity and omnipotence. They simply are. They serve joy and adventure. They are proud of all they have made – the cafe in the cotton candy clouds, that sits upon a garden maze, where fruits and flowers grow upon vines that crawl up the pergolas. People in the most ornate of dresses and waistcoats and shifts run through the the hedges, searching for beautiful treasures that lie in this haven beyond time. Golden fruits, minerals, and plants, all a playground for these joyous souls who have rediscovered childlike wonder.