Rondo

A nose in substances, shelter from prying eyes - and the world smells of emptiness, like a room after a party: a few half-empty glasses and the echo of words spoken long ago. The soul seems to fall into fine sand that gradually covers the body; memories glare like old films, and in the corner there is a bitter feeling of loss and endless waiting, as if the scythe of fate stands aside and patiently waits for a signal.

And yet, between these frames, a warm uncertainty slips through: the touch of a shoulder, someone's hand like a feather in the fog, teaches you to appreciate the moment - not eternity, but the nearest breath. Love here is not a banal hashtag, but a heavy blanket after the rain: uncomfortable, truthful and salvific at the same time. A little melancholy, a little ability to breathe - and you can keep the light even in the thickest fog.