I love autumn terracotta colours. Yet, when winter approaches it comes by the hand of a cold whitish whisper. Both like to settle softly around the whole island. I resent them,  I resist them as much as I can.

Only if could see them tangibly as a human face I would throw them this red juicy liquid just to make a barrier, to detach, loose and even make their path difficult, or at least more superfluous.  But they are only a bleachy murmur. I tried my luck in spite of my chances. As soon as I threw the wine the liquid divided, terrified, it dispersed into little, inoffensive drops, as saying: We could do nothing against the nothing, as saying: This is our last good-bye. Perhaps I should order another one, perhaps the substances that contain the joy of the season would get me, hug me tight, until everything —or nothing—finishes again and again. Off to other places to look for terracotta colours.