paradise

You remember the cold. Not the wind - but the cold in the middle, which has become important for the body.
You remember when the earth disappeared from under your feet.
And then - not dark. And the light, like no less than the eyes, embraces.
And squeak - no, no more. And silence, like ringing, like the first note of a song, like you loved.
You roll around on the soft grass, which smells like honey and mint.
The back is important - not because of the pain, but because of the feeling of being alive.
You look around and scream.
The stench is not just white - the stench is actually silvery, like it shimmers to the rhythm of your breathing.
Leather feather - otherwise woven zi light, like you spent, but it was ticking on you here.
You get up and start the garden.
Vin is not just “charming”. Vin is familiar.
The axis is the one you were on for 7 years.
Axis kushch buzka, bіly what you wished for.
And the stitch with which your barefoot was running - there it is, so warm.
At the end of the stitch there is a budinok.
Not great. Not Kazkovian. And the one that you always dreamed about when you were scared.
It's light coming out of the window, and the chimney smells of cinnamon and apples. The doors open, and Vaughn comes out of them.
A woman with soft wrinkles, white eyes and a smile that breaks all your walls in a second.
“Hello, my sweetheart...” - she doesn’t feed her voice, don’t judge.
“I was counting on you so much. Come here, my dear."
It embraces you so much that you forget how to run away - not out of fear, but because you no longer need to move around in the middle for a long time. “I prepared your loves. For caramel, how you like it. Sit down to the table, I’ll pour the tea right away.”
In the middle there is a calm that never happened.
A blanket that smells like childishness, Sinaboni on the table - still warm, with a clear glaze that shines, like slimy, like licorice.
You are dry, and the skin strip removes a little of the moisture from your shoulders.
And the krill behind my back fade away.
Because the stench is not for pouring into nowhere.
Stinks - to cover the whole garden, if you want.
Mom sits opposite, takes your hand and says:
“You're home. You are in trouble. And I'm not going anywhere. It’s all right, my dear. We have plenty of time. I am sinaboni."

Sofia your mother how you died