On a window pane. Of other cities, other worlds. The ideal, whispers the quiet wind, is not necessarily the trimmed trees, the tightly composed book. Glass hands. An extroverted room, an embracing room. The table wobbles.
Like sitting on a tongue, just looking out there. As if someone had written, blindly, on their own memories. The chair I sat on creaked in the sun. Figs above the view. In the evening, the light seemed to move closer to my skin and there is a happiness flickering in front of my eyes.