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■ I know what you're thinking, father
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Bent afternoon.
I was six, almost seven watching for hours some off-track ant climbing my finger, when I first stepped into the comfortless sobbing of glass guillotined raindrops. I perfectly remember that day secluded between its own precious pearl necklaces. Now the still light windowsill shaped puts me on hold. Baking this sweet bread meant for no one is the best I can do. While spreading the black ink of uncertainties on the white, electric sheet, my fingerprints are growing darker and darker. Wayward, this flimsy life successfully lives me to the end.
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