Random Thoughts on a Sunday Afternoon
Children playing outside,
Dogs barking and distant echoes of neighbours' conversations.
The door is closed but the smell of the flowers stubbornly invade the house,
Filling every room with its scent that denounces the arrival of spring.
Another cigarette is smoked,
Another paper is corrected,
Another hour passes
Feelings are blurry, they are simply shapeless.
Which is odd,
But the definition of odd gets fuzzy and ultimately forgotten.
Floating state where feelings are merged in oblivion and memory fades nicely behind the curtains of the window of the house.
The curtains of the house,
The window of the house,
The house of,