[Note: english is not my mother tongue.]
Celtic flutes tickle my mind and warm up my chest like red wine. When the forests give up, the lakes and planes of Sweden pass by silently through the window of my wagon.
Left behind me are the nostalgia of things never lived, experimented only by the alquemy of a cup of jazmin tea and a song of Cara Dillon. Left behind are someone elses broken hopes. Broken by the love for a distant person only known by the name. Sensations for ever lost will recycle by a golden strike of a small and cute japanese silk fan.
Wait for me, my beloved spring.
