< Shrouded in golden leaves, we wait. The world doesn't end at sunset and only dreams limit themselves to things.
Through a labyrinth of blank hours time leads us on as autumn falls over our house, our patio. Shrouded in a relentless fog we wait, we wait: nostalgia means to live without remembering the word we are made of. >
المُتابَعون
قم بالتسجيل كي تنضم إلى أكبر مجتمع لرواية القصص
أو