XIII - Misty August

I woke up sorrounded by the silent morning, looking outside of the window, I saw cloudy and stormy. The floor was creaking a bit, the walls were firmly cold.

Bad timing I thought. My boots soaked wet 'cause I broke them for every time I ran, to catch the bus, to meet a lover.

I could barely see the hills, from the place I use to work. The rain was hitting the ground, a veil of fog rising quietly.

I love a misty August, everything is surprisingly special. The colours seem more pastel than the ended spring, lendless mysterious days that carries melancholic memories of the old summers.