Through the dust of experiences and through the veil of misunderstandings, I was staring at myself at the vanity table, piercing the axle and nullifying my mind, spirit and body. Outside, the butterfly was struggling with the window glass, as if it was scary out there and safe in here: you know… icons, candles and dark, and all those secluded souls on their benches.
Suddenly, turning into an angel’s wing, the curtain beckoned me insinuatingly. My home made a slight move, and the sun splashed from its hands into my face. My soul was still tossing and turning, and my body felt like cotton candy caught in a spiderweb. But, just like in a ballroom, the new lines and rhymes started descending gracefully and leisurely off the long stairway. And in the dance of the butterfly, and in the creak of the attic, and in the song of the wind, and in the fables of the pines, I was no longer hearing the needles of grief crackling under layers of ice, but broad-leafed melliferous laughter.