Читать книгу Were not were - - Страница 24

The wind is blowing outside the window. Long and mournful. It’s like he’s asking for a house. After all, there, on the street, it is cold and damp, but here it is dry and warm. He beats on the windows, begging him to let him in and rages when he is not noticed. Or maybe it’s the wind in my head, blowing all my thoughts out of me. It’s cold and damp inside me, drafts chill my soul and my heart is always cold in anticipation of winter.