Камин

Six in the morning, a fireplace, and a photograph - the house seems to hold its breath and stare at the fire; memories melt in the flames, and promises turn into a thin, almost ridiculous emptiness. A broken soul sounds not pompous, but like a tired clarification in the diary of life: yes, it was painful, yes, there were barefoot runs across glass, but now it's all neatly folded little scars. Stars fall not for salvation, but as decorations in a play where the roles have already been assigned, and the only thing left is the warmth of the embers and the strange habit of keeping the past in plain sight. A little irony - as if heartbreak requires a chamber interior and soft lighting - and a little warmth, because even emptiness sometimes looks cozy in the early morning light.