4th // 09-04-24

 no, the green leaves grow tall this time of the year, the red vines are almost fully thorned to the wall and my dear purple flower have almost bloomed.

It's winter but my winters and heated, so heated by the cold and the blizzard that can be heard over the hull, my greenhouse is steel and glass, but the blizzard respects, the cold draws back.

Is it your fingers lingering over that old lamp again? Why your eyes look so mellow and tired when admiring your shadows? Is it that your mouth have been closed for long? Or maybe is your hand who can only find companionship on it's grim reflection on the wall. 

You play along those ziplines like a stray cat, those ziplines who energize everything in this greenhouse with a studio, a studio for only one, sheltered from the grey day and the reddish and blue night. The wind outside blows harsh and it can be heard slightly when silence take the room, I've always dreamt of this book.

This book that starts with a boy going to have an adventure, who knows he'll be back home but he never ends there, and from his forest he travels and finds the steampunk machinations, and from there he goes back and finds the manor, and from it he goes back and finds himself lost in ancient sandstone prisons. Endlessly missing where he is supposed to be. Back home.

You're not listening to my story again, your eyes are now outside, and I notice too, the blizzard stopped and I now feel cold on the sun, but I can't help feel better cold when in heat, because my green leaves grew fully, the vines are attached and the flower, has completely bloomed.