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Not to say that she madly loved solitude. It was rather LONELINESS that loved her, and she allowed HIM to do it. It happened that she would wrap herself in silence, close herself from the world with a barn lock, and here IT was - falling through the window in all its glory and with a wonderful aroma. Sometimes she smiled at HIM, and sometimes she met HIM with a dissatisfied face, but she was always happy with HIM. With HIM she could write poetry, draw... think about the people who were or are in her life. Sometimes she even missed HIM... missed and waited for IT to burst in again without warning, ruffle her hair, and allow her lips to smile.

........my morning.....

The library is a window to the world of knowledge, where every book is the key to a new adventure.

A new day is knocking at my window, and I am very glad for it. With great gratitude I accept this great gift - the ability to live: breathe, see, feel, love.

For him, love is not a movie for a long time.

- In France - on De Gaulle. We would have arrived there in a few days. Learned the route. All buildings were checked. Not a single window was left open. We placed our snipers everywhere. As soon as any window opened, they would immediately contact us by radio. We would watch the crowd, everyone - who has a package in his hands, a folded newspaper. No one would even be allowed to open an umbrella. There's no way they'd let a limousine go that slow, 10 miles an hour, and make an unplanned turn. But none of this was done. There was a violation of elementary safety standards. And this is the best evidence that there was a large-scale conspiracy in Dallas.

pulled the trigger.

We, with our own hands, limit ourselves to the limits we are afraid to go beyond, eventually complaining to others about our vile existence, not even trying to look out the window of a fictitious cage.

These seven numbers, scribbled in thick felt-tip pen, would only pull me back into what I was meant to be free of.

Comrade Chairman, I don't want to sleep alone and I won't! I'll throw myself out the window!

And if sadness peeps into your window in the evening - accept it as a tired wanderer, drink warm sweet tea and tell how the crimson sunset enveloped the houses with magical light, how the flowers closed their buds before nightfall, and the little bees flew off to sleep, so that tomorrow morning with the first with the rays of the sun again irrigate this world with a scattering of gold.

I haven't seen you like this for a long time!

The May morning burst through the window with a light pouring rain interspersed with freckled sun and the aroma of coffee. Morning beads of laughter scattered around the room. It's already the end of May again, so I want to stop the spring, admire these languid sunsets, breathe deeply in the smell of lilacs and jasmine. Its magic is in everything... in the threads of sunlight, in smoky water, in the intoxicating smell of herbs. And such languor, as if falling in love with the month of May every year, again and again.

And if the attic window of the soul is wide open early in the morning, then birds fly into it all day long. They bring watercolor patterns on their tails, and fragile hopes under their wings. And they never demand anything in return, only always let go back.