novembers at home

[niche]

When I was twelve I would crack open the window and press my palms to the glass, feel the air cut across my face, surprisingly gentle for the harsh noise it would make. How small I felt in relation to the way the wind worked, but yet how content. In those days, I didn't feel that life was short of a miracle

Comments

[one_if_by_land]

oh but niche, you don't become anything less than a miracle with every passing year.

[colourreporter]

Well, hel-lo you :-).