she walks between the branches of the afternoon, rough inside, strange outside: a thickness in the air, a promise of winter (one can not always live at spring time), the earth needs to freeze and repair itself from time to time.
to smile from the fingertips to cover the chaos of the world, catching sight from a distance of more failures than victories, or maybe it is the opposite, I cannot remember (I do not speak to the gods after breakfast).
You vandalize the thoughts of next table’s patrons, pretending to play on your phone, a bit ashamed to steal the lives of others (but not for very long).
There would be days, ordinary days, filled with daily tasks, performed slowly, a kind of contentment, a certain joy to contemplate one’s life line (broken, but still).
we would let ourselves slip into the skin of a sorry place, where one tries to economize on vowels in long words, in order to come to a conclusion that would remain inside ourselves while watching the late blooms.