Sunday, 14 August 2016
There's a scent in the air that yesterday wasn't here. I don't understand where it comes from, but so it is for many of the beautiful things. They come from where you don't know, linger a day and then are gone and lost. And of what was beautiful only the pain remains, and just the sadness lasts. Until when you let it drain out of your body, like water dripping from your hung out washing.