There are nights when it seems that the sun should not rise over the horizon.
Nights when we slip into the depths of pile of dreams, too tired to resist, and it floats inert, having lost all sense of direction.
Isadora sleeping. Isadora rests. Like a seed under a blanket of snow expected.
The planet revolves, as always, and moves toward a new revolution around the star of this system. The winter solstice is near, the longest night of the year is upon us.
If the Wolf of the Night, or the White Witch, or personal demons, they will prevail sooner or later there will come a new day . Meanwhile, shhh.
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