clouds [Theme] Page 2

Morning with its golden whisper warms the yawning clouds in the endless watercolor sky. The sun's rays touch him, like children's fingers of bright colors in a treasured box in anticipation of magic and joy, mischief and inspiration. A new day affectionately and gently hugs your shoulders, wrapping you in a light, weightless shawl with the warmth of your feelings, smiling and giving pearls of joy and quiet moments.

The morning is like a milky thick veil, smoothly covering the viscous glossy night with a light beige foam. Whether it's clouds or the breath of a drink brewed by our senses on the awakening solar fire. A breath of wind - and yesterday's sunset embers become crimson scarlet again, a moment passes and the magic of the night flows smoothly into a coffee cup, leaving an insinuating trail of tart aroma with a characteristic spicy bitterness and a bouquet of candied citrus fruits, merged with drops of buckwheat honey, pecan nuts and dark chocolate. A light breath extends the sky exactly as far as the current one can fit in it. The rays shift quietly behind the window glass, afraid to disturb the living magic in the thin snow-white palms of porcelain, it is in them that magic and mystery, depth and something new that has not yet happened are born. Lips freeze on the rim, as if the cloud finds a secret orbit at the highest point of gravity. The dance of silk drops flowing into a smooth and light smoke. All the concubines of the world will not be able to express this transparency, weightlessness and harmony of the silence of the night and the tonality of the day with their skillful bodies. A white cloud of foam settles with a newly born milky-pearl pearl on awakening feelings, leaving at the bottom a thick palette of future twilight, keeping secrets, images, visions. Light clouds and tart thick, and between them, in someone's palms, coffee life.

The ocean chose the most elegant waves for me, huge snow-white clouds descended very low, the sun appeared from behind the clouds before plunging into the ocean, and painted the whole sky with the most incredible colors ...

I'm crying.

Everything comes alive. Everything speaks. The dead rise from their graves at night, come to the living when they sleep, bend over the bed and whisper dreams to them. You cannot see it. Your eyes are not your eyes. Your ears are not your ears. Your heart is not your heart.

Clouds always float where they feel good and comfortable.

She teaches children to die in hospices. “They have already made a business out of death, not yet out of dying. I do not console those who remain. I do not sympathize with the desperate, I do not wipe their tears, I do not try to support their spirit. I explain and make death clearer and closer to children. They understand the meaning of death much better than we adults do. It is often enough for them to understand that to die is simply to stop living. They also worry about whether it will hurt and whether they will go to heaven. Then I say that I do not believe in the sky, but I believe in a warm wind. In fluffy clouds of amazing shapes and warm rain pounding on the roof, in bright butterflies dancing on the colored heads of flowers, in the singing of birds outside the window, in a sunbeam hitting the glass. And I say that I will meet them there when they leave. They ask if mom will cry. And I don’t deceive them, I answer that yes, mom will cry.

And walk barefoot on the clouds.

The clouds in the sky are my cradle, and the milky way with the polar star is my secret abode.

No tinsel needed. I am originally whole.

After all, the WORLD, in spite of everything, is beautiful!

Time is clouds floating from childhood to adulthood and back.

And then you came and everything became different ...

A dazzling moonbeam.