Nevermore

The hollow echo of November and the smell of frosty air that even walls cannot hold back. These lines convey a weariness that does not cry out loudly, but rustles quietly in the corners, like old letters. Words fall like heavy stones, without strength or sparkle, but still trying to keep their shape, like the habit of straightening up when you want to lie down.

There is something strangely beautiful about this - almost like the first frost on the asphalt: cold, painful, but for some reason you want to look at it. A thin thread of hope still stretches through the darkness: like the light of a lantern that you see from the window when you think that no one will come anymore. And from this, it is not only empty inside, but also warm in its own way - as if sadness had suddenly learned to breathe.