Autumn

Three minutes Recently, she has been falling out of reality for a short time, but this is enough to understand that she does not want to return to reality. Everything here is so gray and dreary, and in the world where Marguerite is, everything is so beautiful and black. Yes, she loves black, in the world where she wants to be, the winds blow with all their force and power and blow out of her all the sorrows and delusions, all the illusions that come into her head when she sits on a chair at noon, on a Thursday. They blow out, however, and all the hope for all the good. But the head is well ventilated, so that there is nothing left, absolutely nothing, but attraction, clouds looking down on it, and beckon to themselves and crush their greatness, and autumn, which is waiting somewhere around the corner with a knife. She sits somewhere on the edge of a mountain or hill and looks into the distance, she has a table and a chair. Marguerite in her coat, so black but warm, is sitting and writing her new book, expressing her thoughts. And thinks: how nice it is here, the girl looks down at the sea, which is raging under her and becomes calmer from this. The sea, it heals, next to it it seems that everything does not matter. It’s huge, and you realize that your soul is the same. But Marguerite sits there, and her fingers are freezing, and so is her soul. Who still hopes for happiness and love, the girl believes that, perhaps, someone will someday come for her and force her to get off her chair and go to the house, which stands five meters diagonally, it is small but cozy, but it does not add anything to the comfort: not things, knitted no coffee, no fireplace, no cocoa that sits in the kitchen cabinet with the candles. Everything is not the same, the soul is not treated. He would come to her house, bring Marguerite. He would light the fire and ask her why she hadn’t come in, and she would tell him that it was even colder in a house where no one was around than outside, and he would laugh and say that it would always be warm in this house now, just like in her soul, and Marguerite would believe it too. And she would take off her coat, because suddenly she would feel hot, and her soul would start to warm up, and somewhere out there a nearly dead heart would start to come to life.