"It's these simple things that keep us alive"
(Logh, "Yellow Lights Mean Slow Down")
The late autumn. The time of died colors, darkness, dense twilight and casual birds’ screams.
The time when it’s possible to look at the world around oneself: - this world, falling asleep or dying.
The old leaves are underfoot. The naked wood’s branches lamentably extended its hands to the cold white sky.
The heart is wrong with the unexplainable pain. It should like to tell about it, but the words can’t found. It should like to look in somebody’s eyes, but when you turned around, you see nobody. It’s dark and empty. The broken bench. Corrupt figures.
Nobody knows the nature of this pain. May be it come down from the nature which had to die right now in order to revive in the spring. May be it’s the pain of not realized hopes. May be it’s the tiredness simply. Or it’s too piercing wind.
The hands are too frozen. Desultory thoughts. Picture fragments. The autumn came in its time. And now it’s go ...
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