A faded hope matches the mood of a dull morning commute.
The second weekend of February. Clothed in red and white, it is a pretender. It claims to be the herald of romance, but it is not. It is, instead, the harbinger of emotional torture.
Sheltering at home from the storm, I think back to the night before.
The weekend begins with an unpleasant task, an overdue part of the regular chores.
Deceived by the passage of time, we sometimes think that life is a straight road between past and future. It is not. Nor should it be.
Getting ready for a day at work, thinking back to a woman, one from a few months back.
Here we go, again. Time to see what surprises are in store. Time to pick up the dice and give them a shake.