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➳ Don't grow up too fast
And don't embrace the past ➳
--- *** ---
--- The Next Morning ---
--- 25th of December, 1964 ---
Once the very wee hours of the morning after bled in the relentlessly deft daylight episode's dawn, looming on the wintery grizzly horizon and accompanying the magnificently bountiful torrent of tiny alabaster snowflakes' sweetly lenient dance in the thin air. The unforgettably unspeakable, vastly ferocious frigid gale starkly blew a kiss to the galore of surroundings, reckoning the rich diversity of torrent of ominously nude trees towering the countryside's panorama like flock of preternaturally monumental titans formidably enclosing the former aspiring Monsignor's two-story house. The daylight grizzly light pierced the windows' amenable panes, altruistically kind stroking the naturally illuminated space in the rooms and banishing the sinisterly unwelcoming ebony darkness that has saturated the corners of the rooms, whilst despodentnly studious witnessing the dwellers' daily life and absorbing their utterly utmost attention in the raw panorama.
The night before was remarked as one of the most siginificant days ever in your lives as two of kinds with their own outstandingly mystic purposes, dreams and hopes. Not only you celebrated the Christmas Eve's day all alone behind the very walls of the two-story house in the promisingly inviting, doting snuggles on the couch in the living room, but also the pearly precious proposal that accompanied agitatedly the game you had decided to play, in addition to the alcohol taking a severe toll on both of you.
When the older gentleman came to his senses in the very hours of the morning and writhing his larger frame to release himself from the hypodermically balmy, promising snuggle you traded the last night by drifting off asleep on the couch instead hopping up in the king-sized bed upstairs, consequently the emphatic unfastening process of the doting grasp and the genuine epitome of lovingly reassuring sanctum you were swathed of a pair of masculinely strong, muscly arms, mildly simmered the subconsciously sheer frustration. Little did you know what time it was except the crude circumstance of the daylight episode's dawn symptoms, which were far cry from arcane such as your widely shut eyelids preventing the scintillatingly dazzling silver light embrace your filtered prospect. The unnerving tick of the elapsing seconds into minutes, minutes into hours was ineludibly versatile process as well.
In order to not flee the living room with fiercely razor-edge pangs of conscience chasing him down on his mission to no longer populate the site's corners, consequently the indubitably dreamless destination to upstairs to snatch a conveniently warm woolen quilt from his bedroom endured no more than a handful of minutes to bedaub his cozily slipper-clad feet against the floor. The sheer elaboration of the unremittingly restless whispers against the floor didn't catch you off guard, whereas you managed to flip on the other side and dimly readjusting your sleeping posture eventually. The convenient softness of the sofa's fabric carrying the weight of your petite frame didn't fail to linger the hedonistic contentment, subconsciously channelizing to flood your tensely tender muscles to outweigh your haughty ambition to rise from the ashes, and mark the beginning of your daily routine's dynamic roller coaster.
