There is naught in life what donít cherish air.
Air is the fresh breath squeaking from Frodo ladís laughing lips. Itís the wind that blows fresh fruit tree petals on Rosie as she spreads a picnic in the grass.
But air can whistle like a brutal storm on Caradhras, and ooze like the fetid stink of a spiderís deadly lair. It can be the hot and burning sear of Mordorís smoking ruin.
Yet when the day is done, air is the breathing of a kiss Ďcross the table, to be caught in my heart and saved for when darkness comes.