# 025 Of Impossible

Sometimes, I wish for the impossible.

For that which dives like liquid between my palms as I touch it.

And for that which runs like sand through my fingers as I try to grasp at it.

And especially for that which flits above me, like butterflies on the horizon when I am but a mere stone on the ground, lying unimportant, negligible, forgotten.

Sometimes, I wish for the impossible. The unattainable. The elusive.

Like sunsets at dawn. And perfection.