Oh the Opium pipe, a gilded vessel charted for a single course, knowing nothing but the shimmering red shores and oft hidden valleys of the soul; a Southerly destination of the most eccentric geographical qualities: even in the darkest depths of the coldest Winter storm it is forever warm; a tender, jasmine scented breeze never fails to meet you;  and it is eternally the moment just before sunset, the sun like a drop of blood hanging in the titian sky. 203 more words