I had forgotten how purposeless words can hold a special meaning. Just like driving endlessly on the smallest roads, with no possibility whatsoever to get lost since we have no destination.
And it feels like a moment outside of time. Where the only music is the sound of our hearts and the dreams we had.
Dreams made of sun and freshly-picked cherries. Dreams of walking next to her and belonging to someone who lives so very far away.
Now back in London, dreams have turned into wishes. Of the crossed-fingers kind. Just so.
It might be grey and, at times, wet; but deep-inside I know.
That everything is going to be fine. That, somehow, time won’t be counted in seconds but in heartbeats.
So much for the fear of time running-out. At least until the loud noise I’ve come not to hear anymore wakes me up in the morning. The morning of the shortest night of the year.