Too much words

It is the season of excesses, a variety of its layers. I’ve had a wide range of my own for decades already, would just require tenderness for this now. We had half a day of sun being lazy outside, down the stream to pick flowers and back home to clean surfaces, wash the floors, prepare fabrics, ceramic, candles. We had green wine on green glasses.

The heater table had been reassembled in a kitchen, a large tapestry displaced under it to step on steadily. There’s the baguette, the lights and all the right cabbages, some from the garden. We had decided to cook clams to start with, a complete disruption of family tradition. 

Barely a moment of hypothetical joy as the phone rang, then sobbed, one time each, demanding muddle - it did smell quite like old strategies and private club members. After that I lost the video call that I actually wanted to participate in. I can’t seem to do turmoil any good anymore.

My right hand got burnt, some Golden Slices dissolved in hot milk. Cod was made of tears but still tasty, the chocolate mousse was once again ruined.

Old Clothing on Christmas Day was postponed for a toast and tapas by the window. Tradition was later resumed, most absences perfectly delicious.