[A tree frog]
At times, the tiniest things can make our day.
Puces des sables [sand fleas] jumping from one castle to another. Clouds made of clay (at Anna-Sarah’s shop where I’m writing from almost daily).
May has been a little crazy. Of the runs in the park slash flight to France slash rosé et mauresque with Anna-Sarah (every single night) slash book writing slash turning my kitchen into a mess to the point of no return slash painting on porcelain plates kind.
I look through the window. And this is all I see. Rain and trees that snow.
The very spectacle of April happening before my eyes. But no matter how breathless it makes me feel – every single year – I somehow wish for more.
[Hello March, goodbye March]
I’ve felt raindrops running through my hair; and my dress too. I’ve made a cake. And another one too.
I’ve seen blossoms on every tree. I’ve walked in empty avenues, with my eyes closed and his hand on mine.
A friend, of the dear-to-my-heart kind, made this cake today. A few thousands of kilometres away. And I did too. In ten minutes, from cupboards to oven*.
It was eaten on the couch.
It seems like those winter days I longed so much for have finally decided to pop by. Yes, it was cold today. Of the frostbites and hot chocolates kind.
I opened the door to a package made of Impossible film.
When home means finally-untangled hair, the sound of waves that won’t quit our minds – oh and of the shower he’s into two-open-doors away while this song is playing on repeat, only rain hitting the skylight is missing for the orchestra.