A whole Sunday at home.
might make me sad, maybe. But sometimes it is
necessary.
things, I discovered from large, do not go out alone : the floors are not magically come back clean, the beds are based on their own, the powder does not take the case (as we believe are the lords of advertising) to go to make a long trip around the world. And especially not washed the clothes are ironed by themselves, and ordered back in the drawers.
So, of course, Sundays in the spring are also used to pretend that: work at home, cleaning and washing and ironing in bits and pieces to get on top of chaos, let's face it, once and for all - I can create with incredible ease .
I'm really a ' generator unaware of confusion '.
on Sunday alone in the house love the freedom _ not accountable to anyone about what goes through my head of what is happening, unaware of the expressions.
Like the sun coming through the window without curtains and gives way, slowly, at dusk and notte_ time already but I am afraid of the scorching heat of summer, and I know that I must take precautions not to choke.
calms me and makes me present myself to hear your voice on the phone, to talk about concrete things and quotidiane_ because I feel sharp, clear, crystalline and fluid (not confine them) like water flowing in stream, you part of my life. As I do not know exactly. Not yet. But there is not much to add.
It makes me laugh wake up this morning, as if I were returning from a field of battle with the phone still in hand, the book next to the pillow, opened in mid ... glasses? Scattered in the middle of the bed, oddly shaped. I think I've slept on it.
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