silence and among the streetlamps a purple light, a streak of colour in the dark outside, while inside the warmth and the laughter fill my head, my head is spinning after tall glasses of fine red wine, all the tales, the thoughts, the hazy space and the voices, their vibrant flutter beyond a thought, lost in a touch, very focused and real.


              Days before, when the rest of the guests had left she poured me more wine, we talked and then we listened, and listened for a very long time, and now and then I looked at the purple light, lost in a reality that felt like a dream that would walk me home after midnight and wake besides me in the morning and stay.


              A week later snow arrived, melting in the sunshine in the morning and the promise of an afternoon way too perfect, too easy and spontaneous, and as we walked down the avenue I thought that as soon as we'd part all the events would become memories and take on a more vision like appearance, haunting, comforting, something that can never truly be shared with an outsider. Tell me, is there no way back from here, a way back here or is there simply always a way?