I'm someone's character. No, not a comedy, but by all signs a fatal drama. Where the author is looking for a way at the end, in the finale, how to kill me.
Not in a simple way, but masterly. I hear a voice in the morning that whispers like a ghost in my ears. It only took me a couple of days to learn how to feel and listen to him. And while the author is in a creative stupor, getting wet under heavy rains, smoking a lot in a closed window, drawing pictures of my murder in his head, I basically almost resigned myself, but only until I suddenly realized that I seemed to have fallen in love.
It all started with a banal "I want". Those hands that are smeared in flour and fingers with the smell of cinnamon forever, which do not fit at all with the tattoo on her thin forearms.
With a dream to make this world at least a little brighter, easier. To be imprinted with a reflection in the eyes at the moment when the candles are about to go out and darkness will cover us. It will be broken only by the sound of breathing, where there are no more conventions, barriers and distances.
Now I know that love is a great power. Where the aftertaste is the sediment of the purest, spicy. I've never asked for anything, and now I'm begging, for God's sake, rewrite me again!