Yes, I believe it’ll slot just about nice. Here. In this corner. But if I moved it there, would it really make a difference? Don’t you think it’d look good primped like a daffodil against the pane?
You can see how the shadows cast against the dried-up wallpapers look rather appealing. In itself are stories, for shadows to dance with.
It was the day before yesterday, or was it night before the night before last? I was craving a storm. When the edges meet, ofttimes, the blurry lines that meet barely touching each other, sizzles — like bare cable when kissing a frost. Friction is a beautiful word, like tango it entices one to meet the shores, carefully peeling the waves off the beach, uncombed with empty shells, and delicate quills.
I was standing on the pontoon one morning at two. It was eerily beautiful. The waves slushing against each other, the winds whiff the richness of faraway stories, unfinished and the moon stole a glimpse from between the cloudscapes.
Silence. Such a fabulous invitation.
When the returning breaks the shell of the heart, to the breath becoming everything and nothing traversing the veils, as hints that glimmer like diamonds of the ocean, the taste of the sea and the perfume of the winds — such richness, such subtlety as the heart heaves a sigh, and softly, like a maiden free from bondage, trips lightly on the sands, her steps crescendoing like a drum, melodiously in unison as one … voice. The dawn breaks as the first hirondelle swift through like an usher during an entracte of act one, scene two.
C’è ancora amore, dopo il ritorno allo stato di solitudine
Golden Sands, Feature Image Courtesy and Copyright AainaA-Ridtz A R