This is the place where clouds are made.
It happens in the vast jungle, where the world has become quiet and birds whistle the newly formed clouds into shape, where only the gaze of monkeys see the endless shades of green.
I used to live close, then I moved to a place where clouds are not only made, but also travel from one place to another.
Clouds travel, pouring down inspiration, but never truly creating.
Cloud making only happens where the air is heavy with endless possibilities and new beginnings, where smells and shades of light are for no eyes in particular.
Where nothing matters and no one is watching.
Virtuous it is to reside in those places. Virtuous are they who look up to the sky and are touched by bundles of nothingness gaining shape, whose eyes follow the flowing path of traveling clouds.
Virtuous are they who are fearless in their understanding.