next year

I write this on the go. The festivities and the assembling of a new bedroom leaves no time for me to write but at the quiet hours of the morning. This morning is white, but it is not snow. It is quiet but the sun is already up, though hidden.

I will not write until the new year come. It is noisy, with responsibility towards the social constructions of our end of the year. And I am going to enjoy the company of sparkling people and who are worth it. And forget not having the inspiration to write this time.

she writes