Septiembre

Everything slips away faster than we would like. The years pile up into stacks of receipts and photographs, into memories of bars where the tables are now emptier than before. It seems like only yesterday it was noisy, but now there is only the echo of conversation, lost between the chairs.

And there is something touching about this: every evening is like a small rebirth, like summer after summer. Sometimes it seems that if you grasp the moment a little tighter, it won't slip away. But it dissolves anyway - like flowers that dry faster when you rush them. All that remains is music, which speaks more honestly than any words: everything will pass, but that's how it should be.