|27 Feb 2005 @ 00:40, by ida|
There was a time when a traveler...could send his barge out into the Summer Sea and arrive not at Glastonbury of the monks, but at the Holy Isle of Avalon.
For at that time the gates between the worlds drifted within the mists, and were open, one to another, as the traveler thought and willed.
For...that by which men think, we create the world around us, daily new...
(Mists of Avalon)