The horizon had lost its shinning. Like before a great good storm. And no breath was blowing from the skies. Announcing the flood, nature was waiting tensed to be hit. And then, maybe, to reborn. Forgotten in the dust, the silence was ruling in vain. Like in a dream, asleep, lazy and woeful. Whether it was going to snow and rain, and it was about to split it in half...
The once great winds, furious-mild, had beautifully laid down the forgetfulness, in impenetrable secrets. And tiredness had taken the form of dough. And, like a sweet huge pound cake, worked up by the taste buds, and was reaching the deepest places, searching for the lost pleasures. And in all this romantic, extravagant and unspeakable silent image, the fire cracked, for the last time, pathetically spreading smoke and some stars. And the discrete fireplace was sniffing towards the darkened grey sky, through the chimney loaded by the thick black soot. It was looking at the fire and at the glasses, to the weird creatures which were getting closer and further away and were gladly touching until when, implacably, the destine shows itself. A crack was heard and it flew in the quiet embers, which enveloped him. It, the gentle, scattered and always silent cork.
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