Листівки

Autumn is playing its old games again - sprinkling dust on our shoulders, spreading fog between words that have long lost their meaning. It seems like a voice is still sounding somewhere nearby, but it's just an echo, confusing memories with reality. Everything that was once warm and bright now resembles a postcard made of barbed wire - beautiful from afar, but painful to touch. Even ‘I'm sorry’ sounds less like a request and more like an attempt to survive amid the ruins of one's own promises. Melancholy in its most tender form - when sadness is no longer an enemy, but an old acquaintance with whom you can sit quietly in the rain.