by SF

AS NIGHT CAME by, aunt Adriana would sit at the piano and play this slow melody
as if to hide a secret or cut an irreparable rose.
’tis why darkness, when she stopped, thickened.

Ah! this beautiful mystery of solitude, the mystery of being two or, the great mystery of being All.

Nevertheless, after so long a time, only a dim memory lies, an old forgotten book
I will never see or read again.

And I felt I had this strange debt that someone may enter at anytime to claim.

Raindrops on the glass so illegible.

Privilege of misunderstanding.Â