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i've put silly butterflies made of paper on every stone-covered flower in the giant woods (i'm getting lost there every time). and writing is like sewing a piece of craft, monotonously letting the fingers play over the letters and i write my mind on white paper, it's almost like singing although the melody's only in my head. i've been counting every step from this hollow street forward to something that counts (or can be measured) and the sun always strikes twice in everyone's bedroom except mine,

i used to laugh and say that rain loved me so bad that it stayed over my head (but the joke wasn't funny)-
i'm seeing shadows in places that used to be empty but there are no humans there and i'm still wondering (with snow in my hands and arms), when summer will come save us again.