Листівки

Autumn is playing its old games again - sprinkling dust on our shoulders, spreading fog between words that lost their meaning long ago. It seems like a voice is still sounding somewhere nearby, but it's just an echo, confusing memories with reality. Everything that was once warm and bright now resembles a postcard made of barbed wire - beautiful from afar, but painful to touch. And even “I'm sorry” sounds here not like a request, but like an attempt to survive among the ruins of one's own promises. Melancholy in its most tender form - when sadness is no longer an enemy, but an old friend with whom you can sit quietly in the rain.