I close my eyes to listen to my roots, the roof over my head must be an illusion that will not hold up, I will take somebody else’s voice to fill the guest card and then lay down, exhausted, in my dark stories.
tacit agreement we could see in each other eyes: after the rain I'd be morose. The color of the sky on the other side of the horizon, the change of seasons, all that, all that, the transition of the weather, the chaos of the world, all of that would make me morose.
if I had a house, it would be made of wood and it would be pink, it would smell of childhood, it wouldn't be too big, it would creak a little, and when entering from the back door, it would smell of fire.
... but to surprise summer in the middle of the city, then the silence of the pond soiled by the ducks, the ripe fruit, the abundance, another day on earth, it will rain tomorrow
what I need and what is too much what would be nice, but... what will be for later, perhaps, addition, subtraction, the journey to the stars will have to wait.