I hear bells as I lie quietly in the dark. There is a tiny slant of oh-so-pale light coming in under the curtains that shroud my window, but I know it is night time because I am not tired... I just dont want to move. I also know that the night is warm because the crickets song is slow and lazy, and the chimes tintinnabulation goes on unfettered. I pluck up the energy to turn onto my belly and slide onto all fours to open my window, my cotton sheets whispering along skin that is still bare after my post-shower nap.

There is a balmy breeze that slips inside and plays along the feathers of my many dreamcatchers. The bells are louder now, but still faint. I remember being told once, long ago, that the sound of a wind chime was the voice of a human soul, a ghost on the wind. I was always comforted by the idea of their stories finding me as I slept, and made it a point to keep them around me always.

Satisfied with the volume of the chimes now that the barrier of my window is no longer in the way, I settle back down, close my eyes, and feel myself being pulled back into the miasma of sleep. I should fix my painting tomorrow. Somewhere outside, a happy frog chirps its contentment, and I am at peace.