Dust..

November, 28th

Dust.. it was all covered with it. The living room, dark as an obsidian but full of memories which made it shone in a mystical way. Pieces of my life become to my head. there was a big and wide window where you could see the sun rising and sparkling on the eternal snow on the top of the mountains. The sweet smell of wood burning at the chimney became to my nose. Evenings reading at the light of that fire who appeared to be unbreakable. thousands of stories had been told at the silence of the mountains. Those mountains who once had seen poor men die of hunger.

The wind blows as strong as always The same living room has now dusty memories  gathered all around among the non-read books, the wet and frozen wood and the pieces of broken glass.

All this introduction to just say  all we are is dust in the wind, everything is dust in the wind. Yes like the song ha ha. ironical isn´t it?

 

Sincerely, Mr moustache