…

 

’and then there were the rest of the things…
the sound of the sun warming the autumn leaves as it reached for my face. the touch of the evening wind as it filled my lungs with traces of fluffy storm clouds. the taste of tingling greenness through my shoulders as the beating hearts of grass blades bowed silently under my bare soles.’

 

…

 

‘It was easier to think of you ‘not seeing’ and ‘not understanding’, than ‘understanding’ and not trying to see, or ‘seeing’ and not trying to understand.

It was imagining you as a bearer of a lesser degree autism, that made the anger dissolve.’

 

…

 

’we thought the middle of the day was a season in itself. 
we often could hear some kind of creatures calling each other with a specific string of sounds, which could not be heard in any other season. not in spring, not in summer, not in autumn, not in winter.

it was strange, for we could never really see them. but in the silence of our hearts we could feel the vibration of their wings as they touched the clouds, the murmur of their fins as they caressed the waves. it was the quietness after the echo of our pumping heart that gave life to them and it was the trifle everyday words that would make them fade away. it was the border between solitude and loneliness that made time move upside down and backwards, and the moon shine each morning as a massive black hole in every moment of that secret season. 
for about this we were sure of: we were the only ones. 
and what is unheard must stay forever never spoken. for words could only bring the end of silence. 

and in silence lied our only hope of life.

were we the season inside spring, inside summer, inside autumn, inside winter? were we the unknown creatures that never did belong?’