It is the beginning of January. The room feels empty, the air feels so thin, the wine feels like a tab water that those waiters refused to offer a costumer, nothing to feel like feeling, nothing to get drunk from; no one to break heart neither to fall in love for. I intentionally forgot to say goodbye the last time I accidentally saw you drinking mulled wine at the Christmas market with two of your friends. Why do I blame you to bring the fire away, this small town feels too cold now, again and again, grey, shitty, and nobody seems to have a willingness to share a cup of sunshine.
You didn’t say where are you going. Does it feels like a happiness to finally leaving. Will still you still call it a dream to live in small farm in Brazil? I wish I could have such a thing to imagine. But these days are boring. I have no other inspiration but your Cow story.
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