They were vast and blue and the tops of them white as purity. To feel the crunch of the rock beneath the boots – to grasp the clear waters that weaved through and down. And he could feel the cold air in his lungs; with each long breath he gathered a lasting satisfaction. He squinted past the delicate rays of sun to get a clearer image but the peaks faded and blurred, and the blue of them mixed with the blue of the sky. And the whites of the peaks swirled into cloud. Eventually it all faded, and his eyes opened. The ceiling fan spun and the bedside clock ticked and the cars and buses that lay stories below puttered and honked through distant sirens. He swiveled his legs off the side of the bed and sat staring at the blue of his wall, and then the window where the curtains had always been drawn as he had seen through them enough times before to not be surprised or enthralled or interested in what lay behind the dirtied glass.