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He was painting her. She was dancing in his imagination.

She lived there within the crevice of his soul, hidden behind the bars of his deepest desires.

She was born on March 19. That night she stepped into his noumenal world as he was dreaming for the first time.

Before going to sleep his parents told him they were preparing something special for his 17th birthday. He smiled and went to sleep. And dreamed. He never expected her, he never imagined he’d ever meet her, he never knew God loved him so.

On the night of March 19, he dreamt he was in a circus, a very unusual setting that he never saw in his dreams before. But the circus was not the common carnival of animals and acrobats. No fancy equipment, no miming clowns, no rainbow colored light bulbs.

It was magical. It was a dream within a dream. All he could see was space, huge and infinite, and everywhere. The light was deafening and the music blinding. The light was not white but a shade of beauty beyond all brilliance. The music enveloped him softly. But it was a circus. He could see a single dancer in the middle of infinity, her red hair free like an effervescent halo, her light brown eyes innocent and enclosing all the secrets of the universe within — he even thought he could see galaxies shining in her eyes for a moment. Her lips were the beds for magic and wonder, they were not perfect or beautiful, they were spontaneous and beyond words. Her white face was not a face. Her white face was a tulip, gardens of tulips, blooming and swaying with the subtle breeze of spring.

She was naked. But he couldn’t see her body. It was brimming with the light, covered with the light, living in the light, that he wasn’t even sure she had a body. She didn’t have a naked body. She had wings. She didn’t fly. She was standing there in utter silence, in sacred love.

He woke up.

Four years later, on March 19, he was painting her as she danced in his imagination. Forever.

He was in love.

She had wings.