I stumbled into his basement one day. Maybe it was in a dream. There is nothing particularly remarkable about him. He is middle aged to old and has a quiet but congenial manner. Actually, it is his basement that is noteworthy.
There are dragons. Now, I don’t mean real dragons—but still, silent, created dragons. Thousands of them, all made of glass. They rise up at such strange angles and have such delicate appendages that they seem to be impossible. He is surely a master in the art of glass sculpture!
The dragons that fill the room—sitting on tables, hanging from the ceiling, standing on the ground—are each unique and sparkle delicately and dangerously in the light. Sometimes, I will stare at one for a while, mesmerized by its beautiful curves and sharp glass claws. After a while, I feel as if it might begin to move its slender neck and beat those purple and white-swirled wings, sending the dust that has settled on the table into the air.
Whenever I am tired of the ordinary, I find my way back to his basement. Where I can be awestruck once again and where I can believe that dragons are real and that he has seen them. I know what he will tell me if I ask him about real dragons, and his answer will only be a question or an answer that will make more questions. And so I have never asked. Besides, I don’t come here to be scientific or to get answers.
I come here to dream. And I will come again.