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The Journey HomeLying in bed so still and quiet, you glow with child-like, practically divine innocence. Eyes closed as if dreaming, waiting for someone, not knowing whom or why, but acutely aware of the need of a guiding hand. Silently he appears and softly whispers, “I am Michael, your guide.” Grasping your waiting hand he effortlessly lifts you up, gently and steadily, into the clouds, higher and higher above the petty problems of the world, soaring, gliding through the sky as only eagles, or dreamers dare. You feel a gentle wisp as the breeze brushes tender kisses on your cheeks, tickling your nose. You laugh, almost singing. Slipping among the clouds yoThe Journey Home
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